


The Storm Prince

by Xenon912



Series: Princeverse [1]
Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Assassination, Attempted assassination, Bombing, Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, GNC Character, Hate Crimes, MLM Relationship, Multi, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Terrorism, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenon912/pseuds/Xenon912
Summary: “I threw awayeverythingfor you, Nikolovich,” Anton said slowly. “And you will not live to make me regret it.”Patience. Humbleness. Something to lose. They're the three things Ravkan Crown Prince and Grisha prodigy Artemiy Lantsov lacks. Doted on by his parents and adored by his people, Artemiy has never had a want for anything. But when his decision to leave the walls of the Twin Palaces lands him in the heartland of his enemy, Artemiy finds himself in the middle of a brewing conflict that may well destroy everything his parents have worked so hard to build.[Set nineteen years after the events of Crooked Kingdom, this work is a very self-indulgent exploration of the Grishaverse after the fact, with plenty of inspiration taken from actual nineteenth-century history. This is the first of a series. Enjoy!]





	1. I

#  **I: ARTEMIY**

From the day Artemiy set foot in Tsibeya for the mission, he knew he was doomed.

Artemiy was the assigned muscle for the First Army scouts searching for the last traces of outlaws, defectors from the Civil War still hiding from the Crown. “Muscle” was a bit of a misleading term; most of the First Army men that were strong enough for Tsibeya could bench press him easily, but his multiple talents as a Grisha made him indispensable for everything from staying warm to moving snowdrifts. Even after twenty years, Ravka still bore the scars of the war, from the reports of Grisha burning in the north to the lawlessness of the Petrozoi and parts of the interior. Outlaws were a diplomatic headache for the Ravkans when they caused trouble in Fjerda, and they just as often raided the tiny villages that dotted the area just south of Tsibeya proper. If their group found any trace of recent human activity, a regiment of well-armed soldiers would follow. Besides the general dangers that came with wandering the wilderness of Tsibeya, it was a simple search mission, something Artemiy had done a dozen times before.

Things were off from the beginning. They found footprints too fresh to belong to the previous scouts; a moose that had been stripped to the bone by its hunters; broken twigs and shifted branches where there should have been no human life. “Outlaws,” Lebedev, the sergeant in charge of them, said surely. They marked the traces on their map and kept going. It was the seventh day of the mission where Artemiy knew he had failed. It was a clear March morning when they rose to dig deeper into Tsibeya, entering a stretch of forest they hadn’t yet searched. Sometime near noon, Artemiy turned to check his fellow Tidemaker, feeling a heartbeat accelerate on his left, only to watch the Grisha—Daria, a couple of months younger than him—crumple to the ground as a shot rang out. “Hit the ground!” Lebedev yelled, and Artemiy threw himself into the snow, sending up a wall of snow to cover the _otkazat’syas_. Rolling over, he propped himself up onto his elbows. The four non-grisha marksmen were exchanging fire with whoever was hiding in the woods.

“Who are they?” Artemiy yelled at the sergeant, building up the snow wall around them.

“Fjerdans!” Lebedev replied, firing another shotgun round. Artemiy heard the quiet fizzle of a grenade and made a last-ditch attempt to leap out of range. The grenade flew right over the snow wall and landed in front of him. Instead of exploding it let out a strange, purple gas. “Get back!” Artemiy yelled, trying to disperse the gas with a wave of his hand. The moment he tried a wave of complete exhaustion swept over him. His arms stopped working, and he flopped uselessly onto the snow, his limbs going numb. The snow walls he’d been keeping up collapsed as he lay paralyzed in the cold. Somewhere out of his line of sight, the rest of his group was mowed down. Two men in white wolf-masks knelt over him.

“I know that face,” the one on his left said in Fjerdan, sounding terrifyingly satisfied. To his partner he said, “help me get him up.” The two of them picked Artemiy up and dropped him onto a stretcher. “Let’s get him back to camp,” another voice said. “Brum’s going to like what we reeled in.”

Artemiy awoke in darkness. His kefta was gone, but, probably due to the cold, he’d been bundled in furs. He was tied down over the furs, strapped to a stretcher. He wasn't gagged, but his tongue felt like felt; there was no way he could talk. _At least I won’t freeze,_ he thought reasonably.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out some of his surroundings. The tent he was in was clearly of Fjerdan making, made out of what looked like reindeer leather. He could feel panic starting to set in and forced himself to stay steady. The straps that held him down were leather, but they didn't give an inch when he strained against them. Worse than that, whatever drug they had given him apparently hadn't worn off, because he felt nothing—not the heartbeats of the people he knew were outside, nor the wind currents or the steady thrum of life in all things. It was as if his Grisha abilities had been completely suppressed. He felt empty and, worse than that, completely and utterly alone.

For a long time he lay under the furs, not moving, trying to fight past the haze of the drug. Some time after he woke up, the tent flap opened and a young man in uniform stepped inside. There was nothing that wasn’t unsettling about the uniform of the _drüskelle_. They wore grey fur trousers and warm black boots and thick grey parkas, none of which was unusual of the Fjerdans, but on their heads they wore white hoods with snarling wolf masks, white, eyeless, and soulless. The Fjerdan man pulled his hood back, pulling a braid of platinum hair over his shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” the man said, in Ravkan. Artemiy was too well-trained to show his surprise.

“What do you want, _okhotnik_?” Artemiy rasped. He hadn’t had something to drink in hours, and talking felt like sandpaper in his throat.

The Fjerdan didn’t react to the disdain, at least not in any form Artemiy could see. He crossed the tent in two strides and knelt, his mask mere inches from Artemiy’s face. Artemiy briefly debated headbutting him. It’s what his mother would have done. Without speaking, he reached back and pulled his waterskin off his belt, opening it and pressing it to Artemiy’s lips. “Drink.”

Glaring daggers, Artemiy drank.

When he was done, the Wolf put the lid back on his waterskin and returned it to its place. He stood stiffly, looking down at Artemiy through that terrible mask.

“Your mother’s family is from Novokribirsk,” he said, tilting his head just slightly. “Your father, well….”

“You disgrace my language, Fjerdan,” Artemiy spat. The air between them grew charged.

The Wolf turned his head towards the tent flap. “ _Kommandur_ Brum!” he yelled out. A mere moment later another drüskelle entered.

Commander Brum. Despite his best attempts, Artemiy felt his heart stutter fearfully in his chest. Jarl Brum was a Grisha’s worst nightmare, the only Fjerdan—no, the only man—who could say that he shot at a member of the Grisha Triumvirate and lived to tell the tale. In Artemiy’s thoughts, his name was usually preceded by an I will kill. Yet here he was, strapped down, unable to move.

Brum pulled his mask off, revealing a man that looked as if he had been cut from stone, sharp-faced and lined, his eyes a pale, deadly blue. “What’s the matter, Anton?” he said in Fjerdan.

“It’s too feisty to feed.” Anton, the Wolf, said. Artemiy’s skin crawled. _They don’t even think I’m human._

“He’s from the same nest as the rest of them,” Brum dismissed. “If he starves himself, so be it. Leave his corpse for his mother to find him.”

Anton swung his wolf head around to look at Brum. Even without seeing his face, his surprise was apparent. “But—”

“The King will not die with one less witch to enslave,” Brum said briskly. “Play our cards right, we can make it look like frostbite took him. He’s too young to be of much use.”

“I’m not much older than him, sir,” Anton said quietly. Brum gave him a slightly softer look.

“Grisha live pampered lives, Anton,” he said. “You were cut from ice at Djel’s will.” He pulled his mask back on. “Put him back under. We’re moving in an hour.” He swept out of the tent. 

Anton sighed and reached into the bag strapped over his shoulder, procuring a vial with violet-tinted liquid and a syringe in record time.

“No,” Artemiy breathed without realizing, already recognizing the potion as what had robbed him of his abilities earlier. He found himself struggling at his bonds, but they didn’t give. Anton set the now-empty vial aside and put his hand on Artemiy’s forehead, pressing his head into the stretcher.

“Move and I’ll kill you,” Anton said in monotone.

“Then kill me!” Artemiy snarled. Anything, anything to keep that needle from going into his skin—

He felt a sharp prick on the side of his neck and he was gone.

  


The _drüskelle_ marched. Artemiy dreamt.

He’d always been a vivid dreamer. From when he was young he’d been gifted with beautiful, colorful dreams and graphic nightmares alike. He dreamt of kings with wings and horns and princes of darkness; he dreamt of the too-clever fox over and over again until he knew it by heart. When he learned a new song he would dream of it, and when he learned to summon lightning he dreamt that it burned him alive.

Crossing the cold of Tsibeya, however, Artemiy found himself dreaming of Zoya.

His mother was beautiful, effortlessly so, and timeless in the way only Grisha women could be. She was proud, bad-tempered, loyal to the end. He lost track of how many nobles found themselves stuck in bushes after trying to have their way with her (or, worse, a student), but she never raised a hand against him, or any of the students of the Little Palace, most of whom she taught herself. She was terribly grumpy, but even then, she was always infuriatingly fair. He missed her terribly, and he just kept dreaming of the last time he spoke with her.

“I want to go on a mission,” he said to her that night, watching her look through a stack of papers on her desk, her black hair falling over her face. He liked to accompany her, simply sitting in the chair that faced the door and reading a book or sketching. Tonight, however, he’d come for a very specific reason. Her slender fingers stopped moving instantly, and Artemiy might have imagined it, but he felt the pressure in the room drop, just a little.

“No.” Zoya let the word hang in the air for a moment, then resumed what she was doing. It wasn’t enough for Artemiy.

“Why not?” he exclaimed. “I’m seventeen now! Everyone else in my class has already been assigned!”

“Everyone else in your class is not the Crown Prince, Artemiy,” she snapped, slamming her papers down onto the desk and glaring at him. “If I let you onto the field, it will be with me to teach you how to lead. You are not a regular soldier.”

“But Father served in the army when he was my age!” Artemiy insisted, leaning forward. 

She froze, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Did he put you up to this?” she demanded.

“I put myself up to this!” Artemiy shot back, standing. She stood as he did, and even though she was shorter, Artemiy felt the first current of regret go through him. “Don’t you think I need practical experience? Are you just going to keep me here forever?!”

All at once, his mother deflated. Artemiy watched in horror as she slumped back into her chair and put her head in her hands. “Get out,” she whispered, hoarsely.

“Mother—”

“Out.” A gust of wind propelled him towards the door. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The servants in the hall looked at him in alarm, but none of them said anything, which was probably smart of them.

Artemiy should have just gone to bed. He could have gone up to his rooms, nursed his wounded pride over a bottle of whiskey, woken up at noon, and gone to apologize to his mother. But instead he ran to his father, and stood in the hall while they had a screaming match in her office that made his ears hurt. His father had swept out of the room and said, a dark look in his eyes, “You’ve been stationed in Tsibeya. You leave in a week.”

The _drüskelle_ marched. Artemiy woke for only minutes to his tears frozen on his face and prayed no one noticed.

* * *

##  **ANTON**

The Ravkan boy was too beautiful for words.

His braided hair was the color of midnight. The wind chill colored his cheeks a pretty shade of pink, and it made the smattering of freckles over his nose stand out even more. He looked at Anton with such hatred in his arresting blue eyes that Anton couldn’t help but be helplessly in love with him.

The Ravkan boy didn’t wake for more than an hour at a time on their entire march out of Tsibeya to their base in Porsheim, the first town outside the permafrost. After that first encounter, he didn’t talk. Anton fed the boy stew and let him sip at some water and then put him back under. He found it increasingly difficult to ignore the way the boy cried every time Anton stuck a needle in him. He knew a few things about the boy. Firstly, his full name was Artemiy Vasily Nikolaevich Lantsov, and he was the Crown Prince of Ravka. Secondly, he was Grisha, although his true powers were a closely-guarded Ravkan secret. Thirdly, the boy had been born to be a soldier.

“You know if you tell us where you’re keeping the Fjerdans we’ll let you go,” he said one night, setting the now-empty bowl of stew on the ground beside him. Artemiy just glared at him, and he realized the prince would happily die than give up his Grisha comrades.

“You look like a woman,” he said on another occasion, trying to get him to react. “You are too pampered to be this far north.”

It wasn’t entirely wrong; Artemiy’s face was softer and rounder around the edges than any Fjerdan his age, his cheeks still holding traces of baby fat.

“You look like a baby bird that fell into a freezing river,” Artemiy replied, closing his eyes. They didn’t speak again.

A greenish-grey tank was waiting for Anton and his party just beyond the border between Fjerda and Ravka. A tall brown-haired drüskelle, his mask discarded somewhere in the vehicle, leapt down to help them get Artemiy in the back of the tank. Brum walked up to the driver and exchanged some words with him. Within the hour, they were rolling towards Djerholm.

“How long will it take us to get there?” Anton asked Brum, stuffed into the back of the tank along with the rest of them.

“Four hours,” Brum said. “Be glad we have heating.”

Anton nodded and checked Artemiy’s vitals. The past two days Artemiy had not woken up, and now his pulse felt just a little more weak than he was used to. “Is he alright?" Brum asked.

“Weakening,” Anton replied. “It’s because of the muffler. The longer he goes without using his magic, the weaker he’ll grow.”

“No matter,” Brum dismissed. “We’ll be in the Ice Court soon enough.” Anton looked back at him and saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll treat you to a night at the tavern to celebrate your first capture.”

“And we’ll be joining you,” one of his comrades, Rolf, said, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. “I still don’t know how you figured out they were there!”

Anton ducked his head in embarrassment and sat back in his seat. It had been him who had sensed the presence of the Ravkan patrol. He’d had no idea there were Grisha among them until he’d tracked them, and when he’d seen Artemiy move the snow and the wind as if they were one, he’d immediately gone to Brum. They had killed the other fifteen members of the patrol, including the other Grisha. By now someone would have likely found the bodies and realized that Artemiy was missing. “Sir...what will we do if the Ravkans realize we have the prince?” he asked Brum, turning to him.

“We kill him and make it look like he did it to himself,” Brum said simply. Anton felt sick. He nodded again, mutely, and passed the rest of the ride in silence.

He must have fallen asleep. Brum was nudging him awake. “We’re here, Anton,” he said quietly. “Go head to the barracks. I’ll take Artemiy to the prison sector.”

“Tavern tomorrow?” Anton mumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Tomorrow,” Brum agreed. Anton made his way out of the trunk and shuffled home.

The next day Anton had little to do. He woke late and eventually found himself wandering the upper city. Walking aimlessly, he reached the cemetery where Jarl had buried his family members. Without thinking he entered and sought out his mother’s grave.

Anton’s mother had died giving birth to him. According to his mother’s friends he had been a difficult pregnancy, and few had expected her to survive. His mother’s midwife had given him to Jarl Brum, as she had arranged previous to his birth, but Anton held onto his name tightly. It was the only connection he had to a family that was long dead.

She’d been buried in the traditional Fjerdan fashion, her ashes spread near the ruins of the village where she was born, but Brum had a headstone made so Anton could visit on holiday. It read _Alfhild Helvar, 1825 - 1840_. When Anton was ten he had planted a spruce tree that was now as tall as him, to watch over her. It covered the gravestone beside her as well, Anton’s only other relative: _Matthias Helvar, 1820 - 1838_. His gravestone had the snarling wolf of the drüskelle. “I wonder how you died,” Anton said to the gravestone of his dead uncle, not for the first time. “I want to know why no one talks about you.” He sat cross-legged across from the two graves. “I...I captured a Ravkan boy in the _Sibef_ ,” he began. “He is tall and lean, with black hair that reaches his shoulder blades, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. He is beautiful and he despises me and I am sure I am going to kill him.” He looked down at his hands. “I have waited for this all my life. Now I am revolted by the mere idea of it.”

The stones did not respond, but he was still thinking about them as he nursed a tankard of ale in the Tavern with Jarl and Rolf. “Why so glum, Helvar?” Rolf asked good-naturedly, slinging one arm around Anton’s shoulders. “We’re celebrating!”

Anton blinked. “Sorry.” He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I’m just a bit tired.”

“I’m sure the Prince’s new orders will perk you up,” Rolf joked, taking a swig of his tankard. There was a bright blush on his cheeks, a sign that he’d been drinking. “He’s authorized sacrificing the _drusje_ to Djel. May he live a long life!”

A wave of nausea swept over Anton, so powerful he had to put his tankard down. “Why?” he managed.

“The King is growing older now,” Brum said. “I think soon he will abdicate in favor of his son. Rudolph is a pious man. He will not allow witches in the country on the premise of diplomacy.”

They must mean the Ravkans, Anton thought. “Good,” he said out loud. “One dead witch is one less waste of space.” He finished his tankard in one long drink.

“That’s the spirit!” Rolf cheered. Anton stared into his tankard and for one terrible moment saw the look of terror on his face as Anton put another needle under his skin. How would the boy look when Anton held a gun to his head?

“I think I’m going to go now,” Anton murmured, standing abruptly. “I feel unwell.” Without giving Brum and Rolf a chance to respond he shouldered his jacket and swept out. The night was cold and clear, but Anton still felt like he was suffocating.

That night Anton dreamt of a Fjerdan man in Kerch clothing with close-cropped hair, crumbling to the ground as a bullet buried itself in his gut. It must have been a prophecy.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemiy's tutor returns to Os Alta with grave news. The boys reach Djerholm. Anton makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with posting everything I've already written. I'm pacing it to twice a week to give me time to finish the next chapters. I would really not like to be updating as I write.

**NINA**

 

The closer the train got to Os Alta, the more nervous Nina became.

They’d passed Balakirev about an hour ago, which meant she had maybe fifteen minutes to steel her nerves and get ready to face Zoya. Zoya, the Queen of Ravka and member of the Grisha Triumvirate, whose son she had misplaced. 

Nina was still avoiding saying kidnapped. It would be too soon.

When Artemiy’s patrol hadn’t returned to Ulensk on the 12th of March as had been expected of them, Nina chalked it up to the last snow of the year slowing them down. By the 15th, however, she’d started to worry. The next day, the search party had returned with fifteen bodies. The only one missing was Artemiy. “Fjerdans,” the medik of the search party said.

“Don’t be so sure,” she replied darkly, but the bullets they pulled from Sergeant Lebedev were undeniably Fjerdan. That night she spent a long hour at her desk, staring at a map of Ravka and wondering what on Earth to do now. Eventually she called her secretary. “When does the next train to Kribirsk leave?” she asked him.

“Tomorrow at eight, ma’am,” he replied. He looked tired, his uniform slightly rumpled. The deaths had been far too unexpected. It was a failure on her part.

“Get me a seat on it,” she said, standing. “Do not inform the families of the patrol members. I will do it myself when I get to Os Alta.”

He looked utterly flabbergasted. “You’re going to Os Alta?!”

“As my Queen requires it.” Nina tossed out the same line she’d said when she’d been stationed here. “Wake me up at six.” She walked right past him, not waiting for him to process.

“ _ Da, Mayor _ ,” came the quiet response from behind her just before she closed the door.

 

She looked out the window. Far ahead, almost on the other side of the plain where Os Alta resided, was the city itself. The most vivid of its onion domes were hidden in the grey clouds that signaled a storm. It was unusual for it to storm in Os Alta; a team of Squallers and Tidemakers worked constantly to maintain good weather for the nobles. What could be waiting for her in Os Alta that a storm was literally gathering?

Nina sighed and leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. She’d gotten little sleep the past two days, and while the jurda she had on her was keeping her awake for now, she couldn’t wait to fall into her bed in the Little Palace. She tried to go over the speech she’d prepared for Zoya.  _ Artemiy’s patrol was attacked by Fjerdans in the middle Tsibeya. We recovered fifteen of the sixteen members’ bodies. Artemiy is believed to have been taken by the Fjerdans. _

Taken by the Fjerdans. How was she supposed to even get those words out? They sounded almost exactly like  _ I failed _ . Artemiy had been her responsibility, and he’d gone missing on a basic scouting mission.

_Nothing in Tsibeya is ever basic_ , she thought glumly. But Artemiy had insisted. She should have been more strict with him. Artemiy’s charm had always been his greatest weapon; he’d charmed his way out of discipline so many times that Zoya had started demanding his professors send their grievances directly to her. He was tall, lean, handsome, all the most dangerous traits of his parents, flirty and lacking in inhibition. The residents of the Little Palace described his eyes as “paralyzing”, his smile utterly disarming. In other words, he was the image of his mother.

 

When Nina stepped out of the train into Central Station, it was just past ten-thirty in the morning. As had been arranged, an automobile with the Corporalki colors stood outside waiting for her. She instantly recognized her driver. “Yulian!” she exclaimed, smiling. The young heartrender smiled and ducked his head shyly.

“Good morning, Major,” he said, pressing his hand over the crow-and-rose pinned to his kefta as he bowed. “How was your trip?”

“It gave me too much time to think,” Nina answered honestly. “Let’s not dawdle. The Queen is expecting me.”

The drive from the Lower City to the Upper City was brief. “Major?” Yulian said about fifteen minutes in, as they approached the gates of the Upper City.

“Yes?” she replied, looking over at him.

Yulian’s dark eyes flicked from the road to her, briefly. “Is it true that Artemiy has gone missing?”

“Who told you that?” Nina asked, frowning.

“It’s just a rumor,” he said quickly. “That he was lost in Tsibeya.”

Nina sighed. “It’s not just a rumor, Yulian,” she said heavily. “Artemiy was taken by the Fjerdans. I am here to tell the Queen myself.”

“Saints protect him,” Yulian gasped. “The Fjerdans?!”

“Trespassing in Ravkan territory, no less,” Nina grumbled. “It’s nothing short of an act of war.”

“...The Fjerdans can’t afford to go to war with us, though,” Yulian said nervously. “Can they?”

“When I was young, the only thing that kept Fjerdans from invading us was that we were too poor to be of use,” Nina said, gazing out the window. They were passing through the gates of the Upper City now, leaving the busy streets of Lower Os Alta. “If we go to war now, we will destroy each other. There will be nothing left.”

“Surely the Second Army can destroy those _otkazat’syas_ ,” Yulian insisted.

“If they didn’t have guns and _parem_ ,” Nina said simply. The conversation ended there.

 

Nina’s teacher and Corporalki Consul Genya Safin was waiting for her on the steps of the Grand Palace. The Tailor was the Queen’s closest advisor as well as a member of the Grisha Triumvirate, just as Zoya herself was Queen and Etherealki Consul. She had aged well, as all Grisha did. Her vivid red hair had turned orange over time, but her skin remained smooth and perfect beyond the innumerable scars that crisscrossed every inch of her face and hands. Even with the suggestion to use a glass eye, Genya still sported the black eyepatch over her left eye, the insignia of the Second Army stitched into it. She greeted Nina with a hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek as Nina bounded up the stairs to greet her.

“Nina,” she said warmly, taking her head in her hands and looking at her. “How was your trip?”

“Too much time alone with my thoughts,” Nina replied. Genya laughed and let her hands slip down to Nina’s shoulders, steering her inside.

“Here,” she said, pinning a red rose that had apparently just materialized onto Nina’s kefta breast pocket. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

Nina sighed. “There was an accident north. Artemiy...he’s been taken by Fjerdans.”

“What?!” Genya turned to look at her in shock with her good eye. “How?!”

“He was on a scouting mission in Tsibeya,” Nina sighed. “King’s orders.”

"Tsibeya? What was Nikolai even thinking?"  
Nina shrugged. "The north is the only place with active military action. The Shu are too busy killing each other to worry about us. Artemiy wanted practical experience, after all."  
"At least with the Fjerdans we know he'll at least make it to the Ice Court alive," Genya sighed. "We have what, a week?"  
"He might already be there," Nina said. "There are rumors the Fjerdans have developed a type of train that doesn't need tracks. They could get Artemiy to Djerholm in hours."  
"Hours?" Genya echoed, stricken.  
"Did you lose an ear as well as an eye?" Nina snapped, annoyed.  
Genya gave a surprised laugh. "You've been spending far too much time around Zoya. I need to get you to a retreat with only nice people as soon as possible."  
"Provided Zoya doesn't kill me on the spot," Nina muttered, and shoved the doors of the Queen’s office open.

Nina had worked with Zoya for over two decades now, and yet, every time she saw her, her breath caught in her throat.

Zoya’s mere presence in the room demanded attention. Even though she was slightly shorter than average, her presence never needed announcing. If her son’s eyes were paralyzing, her eyes could kill you on the spot. They were so blue it was as if someone had captured a piece of the sky in each. They were shadowed by the obvious exhaustion that lined her beautiful face, as she rested her head on one hand. The Queen’s Diamond glinted on her left ring finger. Nina hadn’t seen her without it in twenty years.

Nina bowed, deeper than she needed with Zoya but as courtesy demanded it. “ _ Moi tsaritsa. _ ”

She could feel Zoya roll her eyes. “Stop that. You’re stalling.”

_ Saints.  _ Nina straightened out and felt Genya’s arm slip off her arm. Genya blew a kiss at Zoya. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said cheerily, and swept out of the room. Zoya’s eyes followed her for a brief moment before they returned to Nina.

“Your report, Major,” Zoya prompted. So Nina told her.

Zoya’s face betrayed no emotion. She was silent for a full minute (Nina was counting the seconds down to her death). She straightened out slowly. Every brain cell Nina had left was yelling one thing:  _ run. _

“Foolish boy,” she said at last, sitting back. She let her head fall all the way back and stared at the ceiling. Nina averted her eyes quickly.

“Our sources in Djerholm confirmed a new prisoner in the Ice Court this morning,” Zoya continued. Nina turned back towards her, shocked. “They have him.”

“What-what are you going to do?”

Zoya sighed. “That’s the problem, Nina. I can’t do anything. They’re going to kill him.” She sat back forward, putting her head in her hands. “Leave me.”

It took everything Nina had in her to not run on her way out.

 

Genya was right around the corner, waiting. She winced in sympathy at Nina’s stricken expression and hurriedly gave her blessing. “Saints protect you. I’m going to make sure she doesn’t cause an indoor hurricane,” Genya said, and was quickly down the hall the way Nina had come. Nina made her way back to the Little Palace through the gardens in stunned silence.

Even though she’d been gone only six months, she found herself wholly disoriented in the gardens that linked the Little Palace and the Grand Palace. The compound was entirely unrecognizable from the palace of her youth, when she had gone to school. The Palace had been rebuilt almost entirely since Nina had returned to the service of the Second Army. The original Little Palace had been built with the Darkling’s Army in mind--secret passages weaved throughout the building, the Darkling’s quarters were large and unused, and it had suffered serious damage during the Ravkan civil war. The new Little Palace was connected to the Grand Palace through the central gardens, a long, labyrinthine stretch of perfectly-trimmed hedges, fountains, and small, pretty grassy clearings.

It was in one of these clearings that she stumbled upon a small pavilion, really just a stretch of fabric attached to four poles. Beneath it was a handsome man in inconspicuous clothes, sitting at a wooden work table, his shirt sleeves rolled back past his elbows as he worked silently on shaping a large chunk of clay. He wore an apron over his clothes that was mostly covered in clay, as were his hands. Nina didn’t recognize him until he looked up at her. “Good morning, Nina.”

“Tsar Nikolai!” Nina exclaimed. She bowed deeply, blushing. “What are you doing out here?”

“A gift for my favorite and only wife,” he said, smiling sweetly. “I think she’ll need a pick-me-up, considering the news you gave her.”

“News spreads fast here,” Nina said, trying to cover her surprise that he already knew. “I’d forgotten.”

“Not that fast,” he reassured her, returning to his work as he talked. “Zoya can’t be in a room without an open window. I may have just happened to have been outside.”

“Just by coincidence?” Nina said, going along with the very obvious ruse.

“Indeed.” Nikolai absently scratched his nose, leaving a faint streak of clay on the bridge. He didn’t appear to notice. His hands paused, and he flexed his fingers. Nina realized with a start that this was the first time in several years--at least ten--that she’d seen him without his gloves, but his hands were too covered in clay to make out the innumerable scars that had turned the skin of his hands into a patchwork of scar tissue. Still, she knew him well enough to know he was flexing his fingers out of nervousness.

“What’s wrong?” she prompted, and then realized she’d probably stepped out of line.

Nikolai sighed and hung his head. “Zoya was right. I shouldn’t have sent him away.”

“Artemiy needed field experience, Your Majesty,” Nina said. “It was my responsibility to keep him safe. If anyone made a mistake here, it was surely myself.”

Nikolai sighed again, then motioned to the empty chair beside him. “Sit down, Major Zenik,” he said, sounding deeply tired. “Tell me what happened.”

 

* * *

 

**ARTEMIY**

 

Wherever Artemiy was, it was infinitely more comfortable than his trek through Tsibeya. After a week sleeping in a tent on the ground and another week tied to a stretcher, he was infinitely glad to find himself on an actual mattress with actual sheets.

Then he opened his eyes and saw sterile white stone walls and a heavy iron door and realized he was in the Ice Court.

Good things: the bed was comfortable. He was no longer cuffed. It was comparatively warm.

Bad things: it was the  _ Ice Court.  _ He was in Djerholm, miles from home, in the heart of enemy territory. No amount of Fjerdan could get him out of this mess.

Sitting up slowly, he got a good look at himself (and his surroundings). The room had one vent for heating, but the metal seemed welded into the wall, making it impossible to open (not that Artemiy could have fit in it). The room was lit by one ceiling light. The wall was at least one inch thick from what he could see and had a slit at the bottom for food, six inches high. However, it had a drop door. As for himself, he seemed mostly unharmed. He was dressed in simple cotton pants and a thick sweater, and equally-thick socks. It was the simplest Fjerdan prison wear.

He stood carefully. His legs felt like he hadn’t stood up in a week, which was mostly true, and his heart ached from the exertion of having to beat so much blood.  _ I’m going to die if I don’t summon,  _ Artemiy thought unhappily, letting himself sink back onto the bed. Reaching out with one hand, he sensed the faint current of the heating in the room, familiarizing himself with the sterile, dry air of the compound. Flicking his wrist, he sent a gust of wind around the room, feeling the comforting rush of power in his hands. But it was much weaker than anything he had ever summoned, barely a breeze. A feeling of panic welled up in him. Had his powers been permanently damaged by whatever that drüskelle, Anton, had given him? He tried again and was disproportionately relieved when this gust was much stronger than the second one.

He heard footsteps in the hall, steady and calm. “We might have to give him a few days to recover before we begin,” he heard a familiar voice say, and realized with a start that it was Anton. “But he’s more powerful than the rest. He might not need it.”

“Not with a mother like the one he has,” a lower, older voice said.  _ Jarl Brum.  _ “ _ Drüsje  _ blood is dangerous, especially when the parent is powerful.”

Anton’s face appeared on the other side of the bars. Artemiy swallowed the urge to leap to his feet, knowing his heart would likely give out under him. “You were right, Jarl,” Anton said, scowling at the sight of him. Artemiy heard the door unlock, and Anton stepped inside.

He was dressed simpler than he had been in Tsibeya. His thick coat and wolf mask had been traded for a simple grey tunic lined with fur, and black boots. Now, with his hair back in a braid, his face clean and glowing, it struck Artemiy that he was as beautiful as a saint. It was too bad they were mortal enemies.

“Easy or hard way?” he asked impatiently in Ravkan, pulling cuffs off his belt.

“Depends on how you like it,” Artemiy replied easily, smirking as Anton’s face flushed.

“It’s as if Ravkans can only raise  _ argrs _ ,” Jarl scoffed from the other side of the door. The word made Artemiy’s stomach flip. It was the one word he’d been taught never to say. In simplest terms,  _ argr  _ meant effeminate, unmasculine and submissive. The last time he’d been called that his mother had catapulted the Fjerdan ambassador over a hedge.

“You can cooperate, or I can drug you again,” Anton threatened. His pale eyes were cold. A pit of dread opened up in Artemiy’s stomach.

How had he become so helpless? He’d told his parents he was ready for the real world, for his deployment. Had he listened to them, he wouldn’t be here, in the Ice Court, staring his death down. Hands trembling, he held his hands out, joined at the wrists.

 

Brum and Anton walked him through a seemingly-endless maze of pale, stone halls. The walls were lined with cells, and he saw faces staring through the bars, watching him. They were of all races--Zemeni, Kerch, Shu, Ravkan like him--and he realized with a start that they were all Grisha. He saw people he thought he might have recognized, but their cheeks were so hollow and gaunt that it was impossible to tell.

At last they entered a large, lab-like room. A sort of metal cage sat in the center, around a sort of chair with plenty of restraints to bind him. Two massive poles extended from the back and loomed over, its metal points aimed directly at the chair. Anton led him straight there. “Sit,” he ordered shortly. Artemiy sat.

“What are you going to do?” he asked as Anton knelt to restrain his ankles. In another set of circumstances he might have enjoyed the image of Anton kneeling at his feet.

“Have you ever summoned lightning?” Anton returned, standing and undoing Artemiy’s handcuffs. Without waiting for a response, he said, “Take your shirt off.”

Artemiy tried and failed to keep his eyebrows down, but did as he was told. “...Only once,” he said, answering Anton’s question. “Only the most powerful and disciplined grisha can do so without dying.”

“Can you redirect it?” Anton continued, securing Artemiy’s wrists. His eyes lingered on Artemiy’s exposed (and chilly) chest for a moment, and Artemiy, despite himself, had to suppress a smirk.

“That’s impossible,” Artemiy protested. “Squallers are not resistant to damage that could be caused by electrocution--”

“Now tell us the truth.” Anton looked at him with such cold patience it made his skin crawl.

“...I only know of one person capable of such a feat, and it almost killed her,” Artemiy said after a long moment. “I doubt I can do it.”

“You’d have better be able to.” Anton slammed his hand into Artemiy’s forehead and pressed his head against the headrest, holding it there until the metal ring was safely secured around his forehead. The last restraint was a leather strap around his torso, which was covered by a metal plate over Artemiy’s chest. The side that pressed against him had dull metal spikes that pressed against him, although they all steered clear of his heart. Anton retreated, closing the cage behind him. “Good luck,  _ argr _ ,” Anton said easily, and swept from the room.

 

* * *

 

**ANTON**

“What voltage are we starting at?” Anton asked as he slipped into the observation room. Jarl and the technician, Gustav, were leaning over the control panel. Gustav was a lean, wiry man, with hair so blonde it seemed almost silvery. His eyes were strange and colorless behind his thick spectacles.

“Typically we start with one milliampere,” Gustav said. “More than ten is enough to kill a normal person.”

“Have the other subjects survived over ten milliamps?” Anton asked, watching the Ravkan boy through the observation window. It was one-way glass, so Artemiy had no idea where they were or even that they were watching him (although he could probably have assumed).

“One did.”

“Of how many?”

“Fourteen.”

Jarl gave an unhappy grunt. “We can’t kill him yet. Start with one.”

“Yes, Kommandur,” Gustav said quietly, and tapped away at the buttons on the console. “Administering shock...now.”

Anton heard a small buzz, and Artemiy gave a shocked and indignated squawk. “You’re going to shock me?!” he exclaimed, sounding utterly furious.

“His critical thinking skills are terribly low,” Anton sighed, half to himself. “How unfortunate.”

“Administering two milliamp shock...now.” Another buzz. Artemiy spasmed in his chair, but only for a second. The shocks seemed to anger him more than anything else.

“Try five,” Anton suggested, and then regretted it.

“Five? All due respect, Sergeant Helvar, that’s a very large increment…” Gustav tried, looking alarmed.

“Do it,” Jarl ordered.

“Administering five milliamp shock,” Gustav said, sounding deeply unsure.

Artemiy yelped. He started struggling against his bonds, looking around. “Where the hell are you?!” he snarled. “Anton!”

There was something about the way Artemiy said his name that sent cold ice into his stomach. He froze in place, digging his nails into his palms.

“Ten.” Brum’s voice cut through him. “Shut him up.”

Anton’s eyes kept going in and out of focus. He heard Artemiy scream, but it didn’t feel like it registered. Gustav’s voice kept droning quietly.  _ Ten point five. Eleven. Eleven point five. Eleven point seven five. Twelve. _

He was pulled from his cloud when Gustav said, “Sir, Twenty milliamperes may very well kill him. Look.”

“Squallers can summon lightning, Gustav,” Brum snapped. “This is nothing compared to the current I’ve seen summoned. Twenty milliamps, thirty seconds. Now.”

“ _ Ja, Kommandur, _ ” Gustav said hoarsely.

The sound Artemiy made was unlike anything Anton had ever heard. He had pulled dull branches from the ribs of hunters, dragged mothers from the burnt corpses of their sons. But this scream wasn’t even a scream, he realized. It was the sound of the air being forced from his lungs, the constricting of every one of his muscles.

“Stop,” Anton choked out, but realized his voice was barely above a whisper. “Stop,” he repeated louder. “Stop that, you’re going to kill him--”

Artemiy slumped back into the chair, utterly destroyed. The thirty seconds had passed.

Anton shoved open the door of the observation room and almost ran to the cage, unlocking it quickly and approaching the Ravkan. “Artemiy?” he said, looking him over. Artemiy’s eyes were closed, and Anton could tell the only reason his head was upright was because of the restraint. His eyelids fluttered at hearing his name, but he didn’t react otherwise.

“Anton.” Brum’s voice was frigid.

“It is my recommendation as the medic present that we end experimentation for today,” Anton found himself saying. His heart felt like it had twisted itself into a knot. He could feel Brum’s displeasure even with his back to him, but he heard the sigh.

“Very well,” Brum said. “Take him back to his cell.”

 

Anton’s hands shook as he undid the restraints that had kept Artemiy pinned to his chair. The boy folded over as soon as he didn’t have the chains to keep him upright, but Anton managed to prop him up enough to get his shirt on (his bare chest was a mightily unwanted distraction). Brum and Gustav had already left to give their report to King Erland, assuming he could take care of the prisoner on his own.

_ Of course I can,  _ he though, slinging Artemiy over a shoulder and walking him over to the gurney.  _ He’s just another prisoner. Just forget that he’s beautiful and he feels and talks and acts like a human. _

Artemiy whimpered as Anton laid him down. Looking up at his face, Anton realized with a start that he was crying, muffling his sobs by biting his lip.  A wave of revulsion swept over Anton. This boy was no older than he was. He was thousands of miles from his home, in the darkest dungeon he could possibly imagine, being subjected to torture in the name of scientific research. How would Anton feel if he was in the same position?

“But you’re  _ drusje, _ ” Anton whispered, feeling helpless. “You’re not--”

The words died in his throat. “You don’t deserve to be here,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

He took Artemiy back to his cell and he went back to his room with one idea in mind: he was going to break Artemiy out of the Ice Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the organization of the Second Army: Genya, Zoya, and David are all consuls of the Second Army. I decided on this title bc the SA is a lot more than just an army and I needed a military name that could approximate their duties as the prime caretakers and governors of the grisha. There are six army majors that ensure the will of the consuls is carried out throughout Ravka and on deployment. Nina is one of these six majors. They are in close confidence with the consuls and in the event that the consuls are unable to lead, the most senior of each grisha order would act as interim consul. Next update will be on Monday.


	3. Intermission I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s as if the creature had looked into his scarred soul._

#  **INTERMISSION**

 

_ He’s perfect.  _

That’s Nikolai’s first thought when he first lays his eyes on his newborn son.

Zoya had forbidden him from even being in the Palace while she gave birth, which had caused a minor political crisis considering the ladies of the court had expected to witness the birth, along with half the military. In her own words, he had “already humiliated me enough, making me gain forty pounds,” and at this point he was too tired of fighting her to try. Which led him to entertain himself in the Oretsev’s city house, just outside the Complex.

“Nikolai,” Alina had tried, for the fiftieth time. “She’s fine.”

“I know,” he’d said, but had continued to pace a groove into the sitting room floor.

Despite the fact that it three hours past midnight when a resigned-looking David finally called through the door, Nikolai actually ran back to the Palace.

“If you wake her up I will actually murder you,” Genya threatened as he flew past her.

“I won’t,” he called behind him, but honestly the only thing he could really think about was seeing his son.

 

“Stop contemplating him,” A voice grumbles behind him, shocking him. Whirling around, he sees Zoya has poked her head out just past the blankets. “And stop crying so loudly.”

This is about the point where he realizes that he’s crying. He wipes his face with his sleeve. “Did I wake you?” he asks, worriedly.

“Who told you I was asleep?” is Zoya’s dry response. “How could I possibly sleep at a time like this?”

“A time like what?” Nikolai asks blearily, glancing back at the little newborn lying in only a diaper in his crib—was he cold? It was cold in this room, the room should be warmer—

“Name him, Idiot King,” Zoya snaps, though it has no bite. “It’s like your brain escaped you the moment you saw him.”

“It kind of did,” he confesses, looking at the drowsy infant. The hair on his head is black as midnight, thick and shiny, and it distinctly pleases Nikolai that his son is going to have Zoya’s hair.

“Your father’s name,” Nikolai says. “Artemiy.”

“Are you sure?” Zoya presses, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

“My father,” Nikolai decides, “is not a man to name my children after.” He reaches out and gently musses the soft mop of hair on top of baby Artemiy’s head. His eyes open at the contact, and he looks directly into Nikolai’s eyes. His eyes are the most vivid shade of blue he’s ever seen, and for just a moment he thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. “I love you,” he tells the newborn fiercely, even though he can’t understand. “I will take care of you. Always.”

 

—-

 

“Papa!” There’s a sharp tug on the back of Nikolai’s coat, and when he turns he finds Artemiy, two months shy of four years old. The fox-fur hat that Zoya had to wrestle onto him is half-covering his eyes, but he gives Nikolai a smile too big for his face. He’s up to his thighs in the snow that doesn’t pass Nikolai’s boots, and when Nikolai picks him up he has to give him a good shake to make sure he doesn’t get his nice coat covered in snow. “Anya unfroze the lake, Papa,” Artemiy says excitedly. “How did she do that?”

“Anya is a Tidemaker, Artemiy,” he says patiently, already having explained this a hundred times. “She can change the temperature of the water so it is warm and melted.” He fixes Artemiy’s hat so that the boy can actually see. “Where’s your mother? Did you run off on her again?”

“Mama’s in the pilion,” Artemiy says, motioning to the nearest one. “She doesn’t like the snow.”

“Pah-vil-ion,” Nikolai coaches him as he starts towards the pavilion. “I’ve told you to stay near your mother, Artemiy. If you can’t stay in one place she won’t take you to her classes anymore.”

“But I wanted to see you,” Artemiy whimpers.

“Do you want to watch the classes or hang out with me?” Nikolai teases, pressing a kiss onto Artemiy’s rosy cheek.

“I don’t like when Venera is there,” Artemiy sniffs. “She’s prettier than me. Mama always compliments her summoning.”

“Venera is six years older than you,” Nikolai points out, stepping onto the cleared stone path in. The pavilion is open to let the breeze through, despite that it was freezing cold. When the Inferni trained in this pavilion, the servants put up special fire-resistant walls to keep the cold out, but Squallers were rarely affected by the cold, being able to warm themselves with their breath. Tidemakers trained on the dock.

Zoya is instructing a class of year four Squallers, most of them nine or ten. Judging by the fact that they all have giant pinwheels, Nikolai infers that she was training their endurance: forcing them to keep the same wind speed for up to an hour at a time. This was a vital pilar of basic Squaller training; endurance was vital for the many uses of Squallers, from piloting ships to calling down lightning storms. Zoya mills around them, fixing their posture and passing words of encouragement. She glances over at Nikolai, standing at just outside the pavilion to avoid being buffeted by wind, and raises her eyebrows. “Squallers down,” she orders, and at once the winds die as the students lower their hands. Not taking her eyes off him, she motions back towards the lake. “Go back to your partners. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

The students break into chatter as they all made their way to the docks where their Tidemaker partners are practicing. “You dropped something,” Nikolai deadpans as Zoya approaches, passing Artemiy over to her.

“Artemiy Vasily Lantsov,” Zoya scolds, fixing Artemiy’s hat again. “How many times do I have to tell you to not run off?”

“But Papa was just over there!”

“You are  _ not  _ to leave my sight, Artemiy,” Zoya snaps. Artemiy sniffles sadly and buries his face in the collar of Zoya’s winter kefta. While the furrow between her brows remains, Zoya pulls the boy closer.

“We should put him on a leash,” Nikolai jokes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Zoya’s ear while she frowns at nothing.

“I may well have to,” Zoya mutters darkly. Artemiy squirms in her grasp.

“Down,” he says, trying to pull himself out of Zoya’s iron grip. She sets him down gently.

“Don’t go far,” she reminds him. Nikolai takes the opportunity to gather Zoya up in his own hug. “Idiot king,” she murmurs, although she relaxes against him. Her eyes stay glued to Artemiy, who has stepped just outside the pavilion to play in the snow.

“When are you leaving for Djerholm?” she asks.

“Saturday,” Nikolai replies. “And that is not an indication of how much time you have left to convince me to take you.”

“I am the Queen.” Zoya turns and glares at him. “Do you realize I’m as much a representative of Ravka as you are?”

“You’re also Grisha,” Nikolai says bluntly. “Do you understand that the Fjerdans would happily cut you open? Do you understand the diplomatic faux pas I would be committing if I brought a  _ drusje  _ in my entourage? They already think you bewitched me.”

“Don’t say that word,” Zoya hisses, stiffening.

“That’s all they see, Zoya,” he says. “I’m not taking you because I can’t, not because I don’t want to.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Did you know I have a half-brother? Denis Opjer is an advisor to Erland.”

Zoya loops her arms around his neck, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you  _ afraid  _ of meeting a scrawny Fjerdan who happens to share an adulterous father with you?”

“You make me sound like a boarding school bastard.”

“You  _ are  _ a boarding school bastard.” There’s a coy grin on her face that Nikolai can’t resist kissing away. She chuckles against his mouth, pulling his head down.

He hears a child scream. Zoya’s pushed him away in a second; he’s already reaching for his pistol.

There’s a dark cloud hovering inches above the surface of the lake. Except it’s not a cloud—Nikolai makes out a head and sharp clawed hands made out of moving shadow. He hasn’t seen such a creature in almost seven years.

“ _ Nichevo’ya, _ ” Zoya breathes beside him. There’s a current of pure terror that goes through him.

“Mama?” Artemiy’s voice turns both of them to the shore of the lake. Artemiy is sitting on the pebbly shore, a twig in one hand. He’s turned his back on the creature and is looking at them, his arms outstretched like he wants to be carried. “Papa?”

He’s nearly a hundred meters away. The only thing between Nikolai and an unkillable monster is his three year old son.

Before Nikolai can even react the nichevo’ya has sped across the surface of the lake and has descended on Artemiy. The boy gives a strangled, terrified scream, and then there’s silence. The creature loses its shape and turns into a sphere of darkness, hovering there where Artemiy had been seconds earlier.

He goes numb. He feels as if the ground has opened up beneath his feet and it’s swallowing him whole. He wishes he were being swallowed. Then he would be dead, like his son almost certainly is. Vaguely he thinks he hears Zoya let out a sob beside him, but he can’t move to comfort her. He can scarcely breathe.

The shadow dissipates, literally vanishes into thin air, and his son, intact but missing his hat, crumples onto the ground. He feels as if the entire universe just gave a sigh of relief. He blinks and Zoya is there, already scooping Artemiy up and yelling for a healer, but Nikolai’s knees feel just a bit too weak to try to move. He takes a deep breath. It’s as if the creature had looked into his scarred soul.

 

—-

 

“I don’t get it,” Zoya repeats, for possibly the thirtieth time in as many minutes. “It just...disintegrated.”

Nikolai shrugs helplessly. “How did it even still exist?” she continues, motioning with her bottle of whiskey. “Where did it come from? Why did it take Artemiy?”

Nikolai takes his own swig of whiskey. “Are we going to debate this all night, darling?”

“Yes!” Zoya slams her hands down so violently she almost spills her drink, which is a sign that Nikolai might want to start getting her in bed. “Our son was swallowed by an evil cloud!”

Yes, definitely time for bed. “I think you’ve had enough whiskey,” Nikolai sighs, and reaches over, trying to confiscate the bottle before it is finished. She gives him a look of pure indignation and yanks it away from him. “Are you four?” Nikolai grumbles, leaning over farther to pull it out of her grasp. She hisses at him but lets him take it. 

The lamps are at their lowest setting, and Nikolai is mildly worried that he’s going to take the furniture of the Royal sitting room with him while he tries to get Zoya to their room, but luckily he knows the layout well enough that they safely make it back to the room. He flicks on the light immediately, despite the fact that his tired, inebriated brain complains about it, because hurting his eyes is better than being in darkness.

Zoya takes him by the arm and pushes him onto the bed, and he is about to give an ultimately half-hearted speech about how he just wants to sleep when Zoya turns the light off, slips into her side of the bed, and almost immediately starts snoring. “Good night, my queen,” Nikolai murmurs, amused, and rolls over.

 

“I almost had him.” The voice that speaks inside his head is a smooth tenor, the Ravkan lilting and old. The man that stands before him in his dreams wears a kefta the color of ink, long and embroidered with gold. The Darkling’s face in young and unmarred with the scars that had plagued him the last months of his life, color high in his cheeks. Smiling, standing confidently, real. “That is quite a boy you have made, little king.”

“Not so little anymore,” Nikolai says coolly. “I’ve outlived you, have I not?”

The Darkling chuckles. “I always preferred you as king, Nikolai,” he says easily. “But you never know when to surrender.” He flicks his wrist, raising the shadows at his feet and forming them into—

“Artemiy,” Nikolai breathes as the toddler materializes at the Darkling’s feet. The boy doesn’t appear to notice him, instead tugging on the Darkling’s jacket and raising his arms to be picked up. The smile the Darkling gives him as he scoops Artemiy up reminds Nikolai of Zoya’s self-assured grin, and it makes him feel very cold.

“A worthy heir,” the Darkling says, tending to Artemiy’s quiet fussing. “For me as much as for you.”

“I didn’t know you were in the business of brainwashing toddlers,” Nikolai snaps.

“I am his  _ teacher _ ,” the Darkling corrects. “Artemiy here wants to be just like his mother. I taught her, you know.” He gets a distant look in his eyes for a moment. “She was my best student. It’s only reasonable she would produce such a brilliant child.” Artemiy rests his head on the Darkling’s shoulder, and the Darkling shifts him so he’ll be more comfortable. “He’ll do what he wants with the power I give him.”

“You were more convincing when you were alive.” Nikolai crosses his arms and raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

The Darkling’s teeth are too white and too sharp for a human and his grin is just a bit too tight. “Your prince will be the diamond of Ravka,” he says, “and then he will realize he can be so much more, and he will tear apart everything you have worked to achieve. Your son will kill you, little soldier king. Mark my words.”


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton meets an infamous pirate.  
> An old friend of Nina's comes to the rescue.

#  **III: ANTON**

 

“Jarl?” Anton hated how soft and unsure his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Jarl.”

He stood in the doorway of Brum’s office, watching his guardian write furiously on a paper with text so small Anton couldn’t possible read it. The Drüskelle commander’s head snapped up at his name. “Anton!” he exclaimed, giving him a small smile. “What is it?”

“Did we keep the belongings of the Grisha boy?” Anton asked. “The boy was talking in his sleep the other night about something in his pocket, and, well….”

Brum frowned for a moment. “Hm, yes,” he said. “Come.” Rising, he led Anton to the far corner of his office, where there was a perilous tower of cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other. Brum picked the second one from the top and gave it to Anton. “Bring it back by tomorrow,” he said. “We’re burning all of it at the second fire.”

“I will, sir,” Anton said quickly. “Thank you.”

 

He burned with guilt as he made his way back to the laboratory cells where they were holding Artemiy, the box in his hands. Ever since he’d resolved to break the Ravkan prince out of prison, every exchange with Jarl was like stabbing himself in the foot. It had been three days since such his epiphany, and he had continued to take Artemiy to the experiments despite the fact that the Grisha weakened every passing minute. Just yesterday he’d had to resuscitate him twice. At this rate, he’d be dead by next Monday. He had to figure out a way to contact the Ravkans without resulting in both of their deaths.

Artemiy was laying in his cot with his back to the door when Anton let himself in. He rolled over slowly, stiffly, another sign of the injuries he was sustaining through the experimentation. Despite how exhausted he looked, Artemiy’s eyes were so vibrant they seemed to almost glow in the half-light of the cell, and they searched him warily.

“I don’t fit in that box, Sergeant Helvar,” he deadpanned, and closed his eyes again.

Anton suppressed a sigh and sat down on the floor in front of the cot, opening the box and pulling Artemiy’s _kefta_ out. “Look.”

Artemiy’s opened one eye, then the other as he realized what was in the box. “What are you going to do with that?” he demanded hoarsely, tense.

“Tell me how to get you back to Ravka without dying,” Anton said, “and you can have all of this back.”

Artemiy was so still he didn’t even seem to be breathing. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “There’s a pin of a crow in a cup in the inner breast pocket of my _kefta_ ,” he said. “Go to the Kerch docks and find a ship called _The Wraith._ You’re looking for a man named Kaz Brekker. He’s Kerch, a criminal, and absolutely insane, and he’s also the only person that’s ever gotten out of the Ice Court alive. We’ll both die without him.”

“Of course I need to enlist the help of a criminal.” Anton unbuttoned the kefta and located the inner pocket, fishing out the pin. It was silver and fit in the palm of his hand. The cup the crow was perched on held the insignia of Ravka—a little enamel banner in sky blue with the gold crown. “All of this assuming I’m good enough at Kerch to negotiate with him?”

Artemiy had closed his eyes again, but he replied, “I gave you the instructions in Kerch, you barbarian. Besides, you won’t have to negotiate. Kaz Brekker knows my father.”

Anton felt his face get warm. “Are we really going to place our chances of survival on a gang boss’s good will?”

“This isn’t just a gang boss, Helvar,” Artemiy said simply. “Kaz Brekker conned the Shu, Fjerdans, _and_ Kerch in one evening and then proceeded to destroy every other gang in Ketterdam in the span of two years. Now he owns the True Sea.”

“Nothing you just said makes me more likely to trust him.”

“Good.” Artemiy rolled over. “Now let me sleep.”

Anton stared at his back, aghast. There was a headache starting to form between his temples, and he honestly couldn’t decide if he wanted to leave or kick Artemiy in the head with a steel-toed boot. For someone who had no other option besides certain death, he certainly was not very civil.

“Am I going to regret letting you live, Lantsov?” Anton asked softly.

Artemiy didn’t roll back over. “If you let me go,” he said carefully, “the next time I will be in this city, I will burn it.”

Anton stood and picked up his box. “I think this city deserves to burn.”

 

Djerholm’s harbor was divided into ten separate sectors, each with a specific purpose. Kerch ships docked in harbors Six, Seven, and Eight. It had taken Anton only mild posturing and a bottle of brandy to get the Kerch manifests, which led him to discover that Brekker Shipping Co. had its personal dock in Harbor Six.

Anton loathed to be in the harbor. It always smelled like rotting fish and brine, and it was crowded with sailors and tourists and the poorest of Fjerdans. He traded his uniform for a more subtle look and forced his way through the crowds to Harbor Six.

Brekker’s ships flew the crow-and-cup insignia identical to the pin in Anton’s pocket. The largest ship, a triple-masted beast with two rows of cannon ports, its masthead carved into the face of a snarling feline, was named _The Wraith._ A dozen heavily-armed Kerch in black clothing guarded the docks. All Anton had to do was show them the pin. “I need to speak to Kaz Brekker,” he said to them, in Kerch.

The apparent head of the guard was a lean Zemeni man, wearing a dark grey button-up with a chromatic waist jacket, a crow pin almost identical to Artemiy’s pinned over his heart. The only difference was the black enamel banner in place of the Ravkan flag. He had two thigh holsters and a belt holster, in total wearing four Zemeni pistols on top of the rifle in his hand. “What business?” he said gruffly. His eyes were the color of stone.

“I need to speak to Kaz Brekker,” Anton repeated. “It’s about a war.” He held out the pin.

The Zemeni man gave a small, mirthless wicked smile.  “Follow me.” He turned to the nearest guard to him. “If anyone comes asking about the boy, shut them up.”

Besides _The Wraith_ there were two significantly smaller cargo ships docked here, both bearing the flag of Brekker Shipping. Rough-looking sailors in black-and-white uniforms unloaded massive crates of jurda and coffee. The Zemeni man led him straight past the sailors up the gangplank onto _The Wraith._ Across the main deck, sat upon a barrel with a book in his hand, a black cane laid across his lap, was a handsome, sharp-faced man in his thirties, his hair trimmed short and dark stubble over his cheeks. He wore a pair of black, round spectacles. He wore all black in the fashion of Kerch merchants, but his way of sitting told Anton he had a gun beneath his coat, and he wore black leather gloves. Anton and his escort crossed the deck quickly. “Kaz,” the Zemeni man called. “This Fjerdan toddler here has a Ravkan crow.”

“I’m eighteen!” Anton exclaimed angrily.

The Zemeni man looked at him blearily. “I’m twice your age and then some.”

Kaz Brekker ignored them both. He closed his book and pocketed his glasses, grabbing his cane and standing. He walked quickly, with a long, careful stride. He held his free hand out in front of Anton. “Give.” His voice was deep and hoarse, as if he’d recently lost his voice.

Anton, feeling a bit like a child being humored, handed over the pin.

Brekker gave it a long look over, twirling it between his fingers and testing the pinning mechanism on the back. “To whom does this pin belong?”

“Artemiy Lantsov,” Anton said. “He’s in the Ice Court.”

The Zemeni man made a sound like he’d just choked on something. Kaz slowly raised his eyebrows. “...Let’s talk inside,” Kaz said after a brief, awkward moment, and they quickly went into the captain’s office.

“Lock the door, Jes,” Kaz said as he rounded his desk and sat down at his chair, leaning his cane onto the desk beside him. Jes motioned for Anton to sit in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk and went to stand beside Kaz. He flicked his wrist, and Anton heard the lock click.

“Materialnik,” Anton noted warily.

Jes raised one eyebrow, a challenge. “Diplomatic immunity, zealot.”

“I’m committing treason by talking to you,” Anton said bluntly. “You realize that, right?”

Kaz clicked his tongue, getting their attention. “Give me your name and regimental information.”

“Sergeant Anton Helvar,” he replied. “First Regiment of the King’s Drüskelle.”

“Helvar?” Jes demanded.

“Yes?” Anton frowned. Kaz rested a gloved hand on Jes’s forearm, silencing him.

“What business, Helvar?” Kaz asked, fixing him with a dark, penetrating gaze.

“I can get Artemiy out of the Ice Court,” Anton said, “but I need you to get him to Ravka.”

“And you,” Kaz guessed.

“I suppose.” Anton shifted uneasily. “It will be fairly easy to declare him dead and sneak him out of the Ice Court, but once he’s out, we’ll need transport to the docks.”

“It can be arranged,” Kaz said coolly. “Friday, when the fireworks start.”

“Friday is the Spring Equinox,” Anton pointed out. “Security’s going to be doubled.”

Kaz’s smile made him feel like he’d made a deal with a demon. “Exactly.”

* * *

 

##  **NINA**

“You have a telegram from Djerholm, _Mayor,_ ” Yulian said as he entered Nina’s office. The paper was folded into a triangle, and it told her exactly whom it was from.

“Thank you, Yulian.” Nina took the paper and unfolded it. Yulian bowed stiffly and left the room.

The message was in Kerch.

MONDAY 17/3/1857 DJERHOLM, FJERDA ON ORDER OF BREKKER SHIPPING, CO.

FERRET IN ICOURT ARTEMIY ABOARD BY 21ST DOCK OS KERVO 2ND APRIL STOP. INFORM NIKOLAI STOP.

KAZ

 

Nina felt all the stress leave her body at once. She rested her forehead on the desk and took a moment to compose herself. “I owe you, Brekker,” she sighed heavily into the desk. “I owe you a lot.”

 

If anyone was alarmed by Nina making a dead sprint to the war room, no one said anything, or at the very least she wasn’t there to hear it. She found herself wondering if they were in audience about halfway into pushing the door open.

“Nina?” Genya yelped. It was her, David, and Zoya and Nikolai, bent over a map of Ravka. Zoya’s hands were stained with ink; Nikolai had his sleeves rolled past his elbows, and a pair of gold-framed glasses sat halfway down his nose. Nina, unable to form a proper sentence, handed the telegram to Genya.

“It’s a telegram from Brekker,” Genya informed the audience while Nina tried to regain her breath. “He...he says Artemiy will be on a boat to Ravka by the 21st.”

“The Saints have blessed us,” Nikolai laughed, and there was such a brilliant smile on his face for a moment that Nina was struck for a moment by how young the king looked. “I told you it was a good idea to keep Brekker on tab.”

Zoya covered her face with her hands and said nothing, probably because she didn’t trust herself to do so.

“It also says...there’s a ferret in the Ice Court,” Nina said, starting to straighten out. “Someone’s breaking Artemiy out from the inside.”

“Artemiy turned a drüskelle?” Zoya sounded mildly flabbergasted, but mostly very proud.

Nina shrugged. “He has a way with men.”

“My beautiful, clever, romantic son,” Nikolai sighed. “He makes me so proud.”

Genya rolled her eye. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

Nikolai blinked. “Did you just compliment me?”

Genya sniffed. “Zoya, actually, although you can take that as a compliment in your taste.” She made a show of looking the king’s outfit over. “In women, at least.”

Nikolai scowled and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “You designated my stylist, Genya.”

 _Yikes,_ Nina thought, and took a step backwards towards the door. “I’ll just be on my way—”

The lock clicked shut. There wasn’t a trace of humor on Zoya’s face, which made it that much more obvious that she thought this was hilarious. “Sit down, Major,” she said. “We need your reports from Ulensk, anyway.”

 

Nikolai ordered her to stay behind when the Triumvirate left to teach their lessons. “I want you to go to Djerholm and make sure Brekker gets Artemiy in one piece,” he said. The hoarse note to his voice was worse than usual, as if he’d been yelling. “And I want you to investigate that ferret he mentioned. If necessary you are to eliminate them.”

“Due respect, _moi tsar,_ ” Nina said carefully, “am I not under Her Majesty’s jurisdiction? Why did you send her out?”

Nikolai crossed his arms. “Zoya is not to know about this,” he ordered. “I am your king. You leave tonight.”

 _Yikes, yikes, yikes,_ Nina thought, trying valiantly to keep her features as calm as possible. “As you wish, _moi tsar,_ ” she said, bowing respectfully. “Should I assemble a team?”

“You can take two.” Nikolai absently scratched at the blond stubble on his jaw as he frowned down at the map of Ravka engraved into the table. “I recommend they be fluent in Fjerdan.”

“What exactly is the purpose of this mission, Your Majesty?”

Nikolai’s frown deepened. “I will not have Artemiy unattended on the True Sea,” he said. “You will help Brekker transport the boy to the Embassy and then to your drop site. I will take you back to Ravka on my ship.”

Nina bowed deeply. “Yes, _moi tsar._ ”

 

Walking out of the war room, Nina felt like there were ants under her skin. Since she had returned to Ravka, almost sixteen years ago, her deployment had been handled exclusively by Zoya. She answered directly to the Triumvirate. Reforms to the Second Army aside, Nikolai preferred to busy himself with the operation of the First Army, even if he had the same jurisdiction over the grisha. They were treading into an area of clandestine missions for the throne that Nina was trying to avoid.

 _Not even for the throne,_ she thought glumly. _Just Nikolai._ She was no romance guru (that job rested mostly on Genya, who had a key to the Queen’s Quarters), but she had assumed Zoya and Nikolai to be a set, a single political entity. There was nothing about this that didn’t make Nina want to hide in a closet.

She stopped for a moment before the gates to the Little Palace, debating who she should take. Fjerdan was a common language taught in the Academy, much more common than Shu. Since the reinstatement of diplomatic relations with Fjerda thirteen years ago, the grisha assigned as diplomatic security were always taught Fjerdan, as were the Second Army’s own diplomatic envoys (otherwise known as recruiters). There was one person she trusted with this mission, fluent in Fjerdan and a brilliant, skilled grisha. He was also leaned against the gates to the compound, calmly enjoying a cigarette. “Kirill,” she scolded, “you’re dead if Zoya smells that on you.”

Kirill Luvenko was a willowy blond-haired Squaller, born to a Ravkan soldier and a Fjerdan woman in the Petrozoi. He had a ragged scar across his handsome face from a disagreement with a palace fountain when he was still a student. At age twenty-two he was the second most decorated grisha diplomat serving the Triumvirate. Artemiy thought he was an “insufferable prick,” unquote, but Nina, who had watched Kirill grow up, thought he was just another victim of Zoya’s irreparable bad mood.

“The cig will kill me first, _Mayor,_ ” he replied easily, dropping the butt and crushing it under his boot. “The Tempest just came through, if you’re looking for her.”

“I’m looking for you, actually.” Nina fished the double-eagle pin Nikolai had given her from her pocket and placed it in his hand. “King’s orders. I’m taking you to Djerholm.”

Nina stopped his hand before he could pin it to Zoya’s blue rose. “The Triumvirate need not know of this.”

Kirill raised his eyebrows. He plucked the rose boutonniere from his lapel and tucked the double eagle in its place. “I serve my king,” he murmured, pressing his hand over his heart. “Should I pack a bag?”

“That would be ideal.”

* * *

 

##  **ARTEMIY**

 

Artemiy felt as if his insides were being slowly roasted.

That, of course, was exactly what was being done to him.

In theory, of course, Artemiy could heal himself; but he had to keep that secret— _one_ of his secrets—from the drüskelle, and his energy focused on making sure his heart kept beating. Pragmatically speaking, he could make it longer with a heart that still beat, even if one of his lungs were burnt to a crisp. But even trying to concentrate on keeping a pulse, Anton had been forced to resuscitate him twice now. At this point, Artemiy was fairly certain that if Anton didn’t get him out by the equinox, he would be dead within the next week.

What day even was it? Anton had come to visit him yesterday, with a box full of Artemiy’s belongings. He assumed all of that stuff—his map, the compass his father had gotten him for his 13th birthday, his precious _kefta_ —had been incinerated by now. No one had come to fetch him today, so he assumed that Jarl Brum and Anton were too busy to torture him again. Like one day of rest would do much difference. He tried to roll over, but every one of his muscles screamed in protest, so he made do with staying on his side, facing the wall.

 _I want to go home_ , he thought, more of a delayed realization, and he felt his (traitorous) eyes fill with tears again. Ever since the first day, where he’d woken up crying to Anton standing there standing at him, a look of muted horror in his eyes, he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t cry. Yet here he was, curled up, unable to move, crying like a little boy. His training hadn’t included how to survive the Ice Court. He didn’t even know if that was possible. He missed home; he wanted to go back to Ravka and sleep in his bed and bury his face in his mother’s hair and watch her teach the students. He would happily shadow his father at his meetings for the rest of his life just to be safe again.

“Artemiy.” Anton’s voice was quiet. Instantly Artemiy bit his bottom lip to stop his crying, clenching his eyes shut tightly.

“What do you want?” he forced out.

The drüskelle’s footfalls were light, but Artemiy could feel the way the air moved around him. Anton leaned over him, carefully brushing Artemiy’s hair out of his face. “You’ve been crying.”

“What do you _want_?” Artemiy repeated, opening his eyes just to glare at him. He heard Anton’s heart skip a beat.

“Hold out until Equinox,” Anton said. “On Brekker’s honor as a criminal and privateer.”

“Pirate,” Artemiy corrected softly, closing his eyes again. “Not privateer.”

 

Wednesday came and went. “Brum’s too busy with Equinox celebrations to oversee the experiments, so he’s put them on hold,” Anton explained, sitting with his back against Artemiy’s cot. “He’s in Halmhend right now.”

Artemiy had recovered enough to roll over without feeling like his spine was being ripped out of him. He lay on his side watching the Fjerdan boy tackle some ridiculous puzzle in his notebook.

“Tell me about your family,” Anton said suddenly.

“What is there to tell you that you don’t already know?” Artemiy asked tiredly.

“I don’t know much about your parents.” There was a pause. “Except for what they feed to us.”

“What do they tell you?” Artemiy asked, his interest piqued.

“They call your father the _drüsjekongen_ ,” Anton said. “They think that he was bewitched by the Grisha.”

“The Witch King,” Artemiy murmured. “If only they knew.” He found himself suppressing a grin. “I’m guessing by Grisha you really just mean my mother?”

“We don’t talk about your mother,” Anton said. “People think if you invoke her she’ll start physically manifesting in your house.”

“I mean….” Artemiy rolled onto his back. “She does that to me.”

“Your house is her house,” Anton pointed out, turning to look at him. He had a small, slightly unsure smile on his face.

“When I was younger if I so much as exhaled loudly in her direction I’d be in trouble for a week,” Artemiy sighed dramatically. “I was once grounded for two weeks for rolling my eyes at her.”

“Sounds like you were an asshole kid,” Anton said. That made Artemiy laugh.

“My tutor likes to say I have no niceness in my genes.” Artemiy grinned at the ceiling. “I think she’s right.”

“I never met my parents,” Anton said. “But my uncle was a drüskelle.”

“What happened to your parents?” Artemiy asked.

“My mother died when I was born,” Anton explained. “My dad died in a sea battle with Kaelish pirates.”

“What about your uncle?”

Anton shrugged. “Brum refuses to talk about it.”

“Did Brum raise you?” Artemiy asked, pulling himself slightly up to look at Anton.

Anton nodded. “He took me in when he heard my mom had died. He’s basically my father.”

“But you’re still committing high treason to break me out?”

Anton blinked. “I would rather commit treason against Fjerda than treason against my own morals.”

“Your witch-hunter morals?”

Anton’s brows furrowed. “My morals as a human being.”

Artemiy’s hand brushed Anton’s hair. The two of them gazed at each other for a long moment. “You should get back to work, little hunter,” Artemiy said at last. “Let me sleep, for the love of all the Saints.”

The corner of Anton’s mouth twitched. “Sleep well, _moi tsarevich,_ ” he said, rising silently, and then he was gone.

Artemiy went back to staring at the ceiling, feeling his stomach do ridiculous flips. It was not possible that he had fallen for the boy that had kidnapped him not even two weeks earlier, yet here he was, feeling like his skin was burning where it had brushed against Anton’s blonde curls. Was it his ridiculous, crooked smile, the softness of his speech? Perhaps it was his gentle demeanor, like he was a woodland spirit, playing with fawns in the forests of the Petrozoi. He refused to admit it had anything to do with the fact that Anton looked like he’d been chiseled out of stone and had life breathed into him.

Sighing heavily, he covered his face with his hands. His mother would probably be laughing at him right about now. He deserved it.

 

Some guard he didn’t know left him his dinner while Artemiy slept. While Artemiy scarfed down his soup, the familiar silhouette of Anton stopped in front of his door, casting a shadow into the cell. “Brum brought something back from Halmhend,” he said quickly, softly, a trace of fear in his voice. “He’s going to try it on you tomorrow. Be ready.”

Artemiy didn’t get much sleep that night.

 

It was something approximating dawn when Gustav and Anton came to take him to the lab (or, as Artemiy called it, the torture chamber). Artemiy tried his best to ignore that Anton’s hands were shaking as he strapped him down. “Don’t secure his arms,” Brum said from his place in the doorway, talking in soft voices with Gustav. There was a wooden box under his arm, sealed tightly shut.

“Yes, sir,” Anton replied quietly. He rested his hand for a moment over Artemiy’s. Their eyes met for a moment. _I’m sorry_ , he mouthed.

“Go, little hunter,” Artemiy murmured, closing his eyes. His head was still strapped to the seat. He supposed Brum didn’t care too much if Artemiy broke his own neck.

Anton’s hand slipped off his. When Artemiy opened his eyes again, the man in his face was Jarl Brum.

“Hands,” Brum ordered in accented Ravkan. Artemiy pressed his lips together to suppress a smirk. Brum had no idea that Artemiy spoke Fjerdan. He held his hands out.

Brum opened his box and pulled out a pair of gloves. The fabric was black, but they seemed to reflect the light just slightly. Artemiy knew exactly what they were; his mother had commissioned a pair just like those to help her summon more lightning. These gloves Brum connected by a wire to the metal plates that sent the electric shocks into him. There was something evil in Brum’s eyes as he retreated to the viewing room.

The current they sent into him traveled down his arms instantly into the gloves. Opening his hand, Artemiy sent a crackle of pale, wispy electricity into the metal bars of the cage.

The next shock was stronger, and made Artemiy swing his entire arm, but the volts still traveled cleanly down his arm and out of his fingertips.

Then he realized something. He could put his hands together. He slammed them together and rubbed them furiously, feeling the air charge between his palms. Just as Brum’s head peeked around the door, he grabbed the cable that led into the room. The amount of force was like a punch to his stomach, and less than a breath later the wall of the viewing room exploded.

He regretted it instantly. _Anton!_ But Anton stumbled out of the dust a moment later, coughing, helping Gustav limp out of the mess Artemiy had made. Brum was approaching, a deadly-looking pistol in his hand, but Anton managed to stop him with an arm. “He’s no use to us dead,” Anton said quickly. “Just think, Brum. We have what we need.”

“He could have killed you!” Brum argued furiously.

“No,” Anton assured him. “He’s too weak to summon enough voltage to actually kill us. Were he at his full strength, the explosion would have collapsed the Ice Court.”

 _Just wait until I come back here, Brum,_ Artemiy thought darkly. _I’ll show you what I’m capable of._

Brum lowered his gun slowly, scowling deeply. Anton’s shoulders slumped marginally. “The measurements should have been saved by the recorder,” Gustav pointed out optimistically. “We should have the voltage of his attack.”

Brum was approaching Artemiy already. With a swift motion he’d backhanded Artemiy so hard he felt the imprint of his teeth bury themselves into the inside of his cheek. His mouth filled with blood. “Get him out,” Brum ordered gruffly to Anton. “Gustav, are you alright?”

“ _Ja, Kommandur_ ,” Gustav said. To Anton, he said, “Go, young one.”

Anton nodded quickly and quickly freed Artemiy of his chair of pain. They didn’t talk until they’d turned the corner. “What were you _thinking_?” he demanded in a low voice.

“I wasn’t,” Artemiy admitted simply. “If you wait to think, you’re already dead.”

“If you don’t think, we will also die,” Anton replied angrily. He half-shoved Artemiy into his cell. “Try not to do anything stupid before tomorrow, alright?”

“As you wish, little hunter.” Artemiy turned to face him, crossing his arms. “If you admit that was pretty awesome.”

“Idiot,” Anton muttered, rolling his eyes, but there was a small smile on his face when he closed the cell door.


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina travels to Djerholm.  
> Anton finds his great escape to be a lot less complicated than he'd anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A simple request for these next couple chapters: pls bear with me

#  **IV: NINA**

“So when are you going to explain to us how we’re supposed to get to Fjerda within the day?” Kirill asked, greeting Nina with a cigarette already in hand. It was half-past eight in the morning, and they’d been in Ryevost for a grand total of about twelve hours, waiting for the transportation arrangements Nikolai had promised at dawn.

“I’ll tell you when I know,” she replied. In truth, she had an idea of what Nikolai had up his sleeve, but she was trying to ignore the possibility.

No such luck. Just as Kirill went to reach for his second cigarette, Nina heard the familiar whirr of the King’s most infamous contraption.

“Sweet Saints!” Kirill was so shocked he fumbled with his lighter. “Is that—”

“The _Windfarer_ ,” Yulian said with a smile. “The King’s airship.”

It was, in essence, a frigate with wings. The _Windfarer_ was the only ship of its kind, the private toy of King Nikolai. Piloting it was so difficult only a handful of people besides the King himself could work it, and providing the Squaller winds to keep it aloft was even harder. However, the ship touched down in front of them with such grace it seemed like it was made out of air itself. Two tall, dark-haired Squallers leapt from the ship and immediately enabled a mechanism that unfolded a gangplank. One of the Squallers had a right sleeve cut entirely off, revealing a short stump where his arm had been.

“Adrik!” Kirill exclaimed. “How on Earth did you escape the Tempest’s grasp?”

“She drank herself into a stupor last night,” the one-armed Squaller said. “The King left her sleeping. We’ll have more than enough time to get you three to Djerholm and be back.”

Kirill made the sign of the Saints at the mention of Zoya, before approaching to give Adrik a one-armed hug. “And you, Nadia,” he continued. “Are you the only other one that can summon for this monstrosity?”

“Hey, now,” came Nikolai’s voice, as his head appeared over the railing. He had a pair of gold-framed, round spectacles halfway down his nose. “The _Windfarer_ is no monstrosity. She’s a marvel of engineering!”

“Forgive me, _moi tsar_ ,” Kirill said. His voice held not even the illusion of actual remorse.

“Major Zenik!” Nikolai’s gaze turned to her. His eyes seemed comically huge through his glasses. “Do come aboard. We have no time to waste!” He gave her a wide grin. He was practically bouncing with energy. It appeared he was quite excited to pilot his dear _Windfarer._

“I do not trust this contraption,” Yulian muttered to her without moving his mouth.

“I’ve been on it,” Nina reassured him. “But if you get sea sick, I should warn you air sickness is worse.”

 

The _Windfarer_ reached speeds that Nina did not even think were possible. Despite his reduction in arms, Adrik was a skilled summoner, and he and his sister kept a steady pace over the Petrozoi. It was barely an hour before they were flying over the icy plains of Tsibeya. Nina’s stomach twisted as she looked down over the barren wasteland, leaning over the banister just behind Nikolai. She’d lost Artemiy here.

“Not the best sight, is it?” Nikolai said, surprising her. He was still at his pilot’s wheel, but was apparently quite relaxed, seeing as how he was reading a book while moving the wheel with his free hand. “It’s not a diplomatic opinion, but I despise Fjerda. It is such an ugly and grey country.”

“It has a unique charm,” Nina opined, “but it cannot possibly compete with Ravka.”

“I suppose I’ve never had a chance to really go sight-seeing,” Nikolai said, turning to look at her. “Last time I was here...the collapse of Shu negotiations, if I remember correctly.”

Nina winced. “I can’t imagine anyone having a good opinion of Fjerda after that.”

“Hm.” Nikolai turned back to the wheel, closing his book. “To think of all the lives that could have been saved if I hadn’t been the _Drüsjekongen_.” His voice held an edge to it that made Nina feel cold.

“That’s on them, Your Majesty,” Nina said. “They are the ones that believe fairness towards Grisha makes you possessed.”

Nikolai gave short laugh. “I suppose,” he said. “I can’t help what wonder what would have been of negotiations if I had brought my closest diplomat.”

“They would have blown your ship to pieces in the harbor,” Nina said bluntly. “And the Shu would have marched their army of abominations past us.”

Nikolai was silent for a long moment. “When the Shu first started using _parem_ , they had no idea what to call the soldiers they created. In Djerholm that month I learned what they called them now: _mersos_ , from our _merzost._ ” He made the sign of the Saints over his heart. “I cannot negotiate with any people that practice such evil. What kind of man would that have made me?”

 

Nina was still mulling over the King’s words when she saw the grey stone of Djerholm come into view. “We’ll be landing at Ambassador Dvornikov’s residence,” Nikolai informed her. “You three can make your way into Djerholm from there.”

“Understood,” Nina replied, tipping her head at him slightly.

They descended slowly. Ambassador Gavril Dvornikov had a handsome country home built in the towering pale style of Os Alta’s inner city. It stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the rocky grey hills that surrounded Djerholm, punctuated by short and squat, wooden buildings of Fjerdan architecture. The _Windfarer_ touched down gently. “Alright!” Nikolai clapped his hands together. Through his gloves they made only a muffled _thump._ “Off my ship! If I’m not in Os Alta by mid-afternoon my Queen is going to kill some poor fellow.”

Nina avoided pleasantries with Nadia and Adrik by vaulting over the railing of the ship and dropping down, rolling once to absorb the force. Kirill landed beside her just as she got to her feet, kept steady by a helpful gust. “If anything goes wrong, go straight to the embassy,” Nikolai called down from above her. “You are to protect the prince at all costs.”

“ _Dlya Ravka, moi tsar_ ,” Yulian intoned, turning to look Nikolai in the eye as he pressed his fist over his heart.

“ _Dlya Ravka_ ,” the others murmured.

For some strange reason, watching the _Windfarer_ rise back into the sky, Nina felt like she was watching a plague boat sail down the canals of Ketterdam.

 

Ambassador Dvornikov awaited them at the door into his manor. “Yulian!” he greeted, wrapping the Heartrender in a hug. “How are you?”

“I’m well, Uncle,” Yulian said, smiling and patting Dvornikov on the back awkwardly.

“A blueblood bleeder?” Kirill said. “Color me surprised.”

“Shut up, Kirill,” Nina ordered impatiently. “Ambassador, I find myself with a want for some tea.”

“Right this way, Major Zenik.” Dvornikov glanced between her and a now-sullen Kirill and wisely decided not to say anything.

With a warm cup of tea in her hands, Nina found herself formulating the plan with a lot more ease than she’d had working on the _Windfarer._ “We’ll meet Brekker’s men at this cafe at four,” she told Yulian and Kirill, who were bent over the map of Djerholm Dvornikov had given them. “I’m assuming they’ll take us to their docks to form rank. We’ll take their car to the Southeast entrance—”

“Fjerdans have cars?” Kirill asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, idiot,” Yulian snapped. “Everyone has cars by now.”

“As I was saying,” Nina continued pointedly, “we’ll be providing cover for the ferret while he gets Artemiy out. Once I speak with Brekker, I’ll be able to give you more detailed instructions. Until then, do not leave the building and _do not_ use your abilities. Are we understood?”

“ _Da._ ” The two boys nodded quickly.

“And no smoking inside.” Nina got to her feet. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up at three.”

“I’m not a _barbarian,_ Major,” Kirill complained at her retreating back. “Smoking indoors is for the Kerch!”

“I’ll be sure to tell Kaz Brekker you said that.”

* * *

##  **ANTON**

“Why didn’t you let me kill the boy?”

Brum stood in the door to Anton’s barracks, empty except for him. It was too dark to make our Brum’s features. He was merely a silhouette against the light of the hall.

“We’ve thrown too much money at him to give up now,” Anton said nonchalantly. “Besides, now that we’ve proved they can redirect, we can proceed to the next phase.”

“There is no next phase,” Brum said tightly. “There were no experiments, Anton. There never were.”

“What?” The revelation took Anton by such surprise that he spilled ink on his notebook, open to a page filled with sketches of his precious Ravkan charge. “What do you mean?”

“We already know everything there is to know about Grisha.” Brum approached slowly. He was limping slightly, probably having been injured in the explosion. “He was supposed to die. The electricity was supposed to kill him.” At Anton’s aghast face, he continued. “The current was meant to go in an infinite loop: into his chest, to his gloves, back to his chest through the cables. It would make it seem as if he killed himself summoning lightning.”

“But—”

“We have the prince of Ravka in our possession!” Brum’s voice was still quiet, but Anton felt it reverberate in his brain. “I’m going to kill him tonight, Anton. You will dispose of him and we will be done with this.” His eyes narrowed. “I will not let you grow soft.”

“But it’s Equinox,” Anton tried, helplessly confused.

“He will make a worthy sacrifice to Djel.”

Anton swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

 

Brum’s limp seemed to grow worse as they made their way down to Artemiy’s cell. Anton’s skin was crawling; he had to resist the urge to scratch at his arm until it bled. Brum’s breathing grew labored. His face was gaunt, and strangely pale. “Are you alright, sir?” Anton asked cautiously.

“Fine.” Brum fumbled with the key into Artemiy’s hall.

Artemiy was lying on his back when they entered his cell. He sat up quickly, glancing between them warily. “You’re short a pair of arms,” he noted, in Ravkan. His eyes bored into Anton, and the hint of accusation in his blue gaze made another wave of panic sweep over Anton.

“Be quiet, boy,” Anton said shortly. He saw Brum’s lips twitch with the barest trace of a pleased smile.

“Cuff him,” Brum ordered. Anton slipped his hand into his pocket as he went behind Artemiy. He slipped the needle into Artemiy’s wrist. The boy grunted, which Anton covered by shoving him roughly, bending him over as he tied Artemiy’s hands.

“There are easier ways to make me bend over, little hunter,” Artemiy crooned slyly.

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Anton snapped, blushing furiously.

 

Artemiy’s walk slowed as they neared the Southeast gate. “Keep walking,” Brum ordered gruffly even as Anton had to propel the other boy forward. “The Block is just around the corner.”

The Block in question, of course, was the execution Block, a long slab of black stone where they stood prisoners for the firing squads. King Erland believed this method of executing Grisha was more humane than the pyre. Anton knew that they burned Grisha just as often. The Block was primarily for Fjerdan treasoners and First Army spies from Ravka.

Just as Brum pushed open the door into the small stone courtyard where the Block was, Artemiy’s knees gave out. Anton barely managed to keep his head from slamming into the cobblestone. Pressing his fingers into Artemiy’s jugular, he had to suppress a look of panic as he felt only the faintest possible pulse. The diluted poison that Kaz had given him to fake Artemiy’s death had worked like a charm. Artemiy’s chest had no discernible movement. “He...he’s dead,” Anton said, feigning shock. “He just dropped dead.”

“A gift of Djel!” Brum knelt and checked Artemiy’s pulse himself. He almost toppled over. “I suppose I have time to prepare for Equinox now.” He looked up at Anton. “Take my personal car and dump his body in the sea.”

“Isn’t it better to burn it?” Anton asked, although it was the perfect cover he needed.

“Not with so many people visiting.” Brum stood. “There are body bags there.” He pointed at the closet beside the door back into the oppressive white halls of the  _ drüskelle  _ sector. “Be back by fireworks. Take the Southeast entrance.”

“One hour?”

“One hour,” Brum confirmed. “The bluff outside the Merchants’ District is best. No one will be there, even to look at the fireworks.”

Brum rose unsteadily. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Anton pressed. Brum bristled.

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he snapped. “Do as I say.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Anton stammered. Brum let the door slam as he left the courtyard, leaving him and Artemiy alone.

Putting a two-hundred pound Ravkan into a body bag was a lot harder than Anton had anticipated. Also, most people he’d put in body bags weren’t still alive, which Anton had to take into consideration. He opted to keep the bag just a little unzipped so Artemiy wouldn’t run out of air, then hefted him over a shoulder and strolled towards the Southeast entrance. Some part of him was exceptionally confused at the ridiculous instructions Brum had given him. He’d barely reacted to Artemiy collapsing; he seemed utterly delirious, eyes glassy and gait stiff. The other part of him was relieved that Brum had made it so  _ easy  _ for him to sneak Artemiy out of the Ice Court.

The halls were strangely abandoned as Anton marched purposely towards the Southeast gate. He saw a pair of _drüskelle_ pass by, muttering rapidly to each other. They silenced quickly as soon as they saw Anton. Anton barely had to flash his identification for the guards to wave him out. “Brum sent word,” they assured him in passing. Anton tipped his head at them.

The gravel lot outside of the gate was empty. Anton walked until he was in the nearest watchtower’s blind spot and laid Artemiy down. The sedative Anton had given him would wear off in about an hour, but Brekker had promised to be there half an hour before fireworks, which was...any minute now.

As he had expected, he heard them before he saw them. There was no sound quite like wheels crunching over the gravel. The bright front lights of the car that came over the hill briefly blinded him. To his great amusement, it was a standard  _ drüskelle _ -type automobile used for transporting prisoners. Brekker was evidently a master thief.

The two black-clad soldiers that jumped down from the back of the car were distinctly Ravkan, two well-fed and sharp-faced men with trimmed hair. The two of them looked at him warily as they picked up Artemiy and took him back to the auto. Anton followed silently behind them. Kaz Brekker, a nightmare in a trench coat, was sitting calmly as Anton climbed into the back after the two Ravkans. Sitting beside him was a tall, generous woman, her brown hair braided back. Her pale eyes narrowed as they landed on him. Anton knelt and unzipped the body bag as Brekker’s deputy, Jes, closed the doors and ordered the driver to start moving. Artemiy had gone grey, as he’d expected. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a liquid that was supposed to reverse the effects of the sedative and gave Artemiy a double dose.

“What are you putting in him?” one of the Ravkans demanded in Fjerdan. “His heart is slow.”

Anton bristled. “I’m remedying that fact.”

“Breathe, Yulian,” the other Ravkan said, in Ravkan. Now that Anton could see him better, he saw the young man had a ragged scar cutting across his face. He reached nimbly into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, which he lit quickly and took a long drag of. “Tyoma’s survived worse.”

Artemiy’s brows furrowed briefly at the man’s voice, as if he’d heard it. Pressing his fingers to Artemiy’s neck, Anton felt his pulse was starting to rise again.

“There’s no need for antagonizing,” Brekker said breezily. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

The first Ravkan, Yulian, sniffed. “Lieutenant Yulian Ivanov, Corporalnik.”

The other one pulled his cigarette briefly from his lips. “Captain Kirill Luvenko. Squaller.”

The woman scowled. “Major Nina Zenik. Corporalnik.”

“My name is Anton Helvar,” he replied. “Former sergeant of the First Regiment of the King’s  _ drüskelle _ .”

A look passed over Nina’s face so fast he couldn’t put a name to it. Fear? Guilt? Just as quickly it was gone, and she was back to scowling. Jes shifted uncomfortably. Only Kaz seemed unaware of the discomfort. He pulled his pair of black-rimmed spectacles out of his pocket along with a small book and began reading. Only a moment later Anton heard the bells. “Stop the  _ bil _ _!”_ Brekker shouted immediately, and just as quickly had slammed the doors open with his cane and jumped out. Anton followed him and listened to to the pattern.

“Blue protocol,” he identified. “A member of the Royal Family has been killed.”

“What in every Saint on Earth…” Jes had stepped out behind them. “Can you tell who it is?”

“No,” Anton said. “It’s not that specific. We’d have better keep moving.”

“This isn’t right,” Brekker said instantly. He had a distant look in his eyes, like he was thinking very hard about something. His gloved hand gripped his cane tightly. “Get back inside,” Brekker ordered. “We’ll figure this out at the embassy.”

 

Anton had only seen the Ravkan Embassy once before, as a young student learning about his enemy. It was a pale, willowy structure, two rings of white stone walls around a cluster of onion-topped domes in vibrant colors. The entire building was illuminated by spotlights, like a glowing beacon in the night. While the rest of Djerholm celebrated the Equinox, the neighborhood surrounding the embassy was quiet, the windows of the buildings dark. The population of this area was overwhelmingly Ravkan, and they didn’t celebrate such pagan holidays. Artemiy slept soundly as Anton scooped him up and jumped out of the trunk. Kirill and Nina seemed to bristle at the sight, but Artemiy stirred and grabbed a handful of Anton’s jacket, and they let him pass. The bells still rang. Nina approached the gilded gate into the Embassy compound and flashed something to let them in. The two guards at the gate wore ivory, the color of servants in Ravka, but had an  _ I  _ embroidered over their hearts, the symbol of the First Army. “Limp faster, Brekker,” Nina said shortly.

“I’m on gravel, sweetheart,” Brekker replied. “Come, Anton.”

There were a pair of servants waiting to lead them into a tea room at the entrance to the Embassy. Along the walls of the long hall were portraits of the many Ravkan kings. The tea room was lavishly decorated in the finest Ravkan embroidery. A giant portrait of King Nikolai hung on the wall, flanked by double eagles. Setting Artemiy down on one of the couches, Anton approached the painting to get a better look.  _ They must look alike _ , Anton thought. The painting and Artemiy had the same sharp, crooked nose and brooding look. But their colors were entirely different. Instead of Artemiy’s deep blue eyes, the king had greenish-hazel eyes, and trimmed blonde hair as opposed to Artemiy’s inky hair. A pale scar traveled over the king’s face, starting above his left eyebrow and ending at his jaw. 

“Nikolai demanded that they depict him accurately,” Nina said behind him, making him jump and turn to face her. “But they omitted most of his scars.” She held his gaze for a moment. “In Ravka, we call him  _ Korol Rezni. _ ”

“King of Scars,” Anton said. “Here we call him  _ der Drüsjekongen _ .”

Had the room not been quiet, Anton wouldn’t have heard the voice that spoke. “A witch king,” Artemiy rasped, “fit for a witch queen.”

Anton ran to his side. Artemiy was smiling, a crooked, genuine smile he’d never seen before. “You did it, little hunter,” Artemiy said. “Thank you.” His eyes flicked past Anton to Nina, hovering behind him. “Why, Nina, you look as dazzling as ever.”

“Foolish boy,” Nina scolded, although it didn’t have much bite. “Do you know the fright you gave me? Or your poor mother?”

“In his defense, he didn’t  _ try  _ to get kidnapped,” Kirill pointed out. He’d finished his first cigarette on the way to the embassy and now had a second one hanging from his mouth. “He was just that incompetent.”

“That’s rich considering the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done is speak to Her Majesty before coffee.” Artemiy pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over the side. Anton stood to give him space, but Artemiy just as easily snagged Anton’s sleeve and pulled him down onto the couch next to him. “Since we’re already here, could someone call for tea?”

Nina waved at the back of the room, and Anton started as he saw there had been a servant standing there. She’d been so still he hadn’t even noticed she was there. She disappeared between one of the heavy curtains. “This place has servants’ tunnels?” Anton asked.

Artemiy sniffed. “All Ravkan houses of this size do. It’s not seemly to have the servants running about.” He looked at Anton. “Did you happen to save my  _ kefta _ ?”

“I am in possession of all of your belongings, princeling,” Brekker interjected, reclining on a couch to Anton’s left. “Jes, if you will?”

Jes, who had remained hovering by the door, saluted him easily. “Be right back.”

Nina started undoing her braid. “I should send word to Os Alta.” She turned to Brekker. “Can you find out what happened in the Ice Court?”

“I am hurt and offended that you would even ask that question.” Kaz crossed his arms. “Inej will be here soon. She’ll fill us in.”

 

Nina left to send her telegram just before a dozen servants entered with platters covered in pastries and tea. Artemiy looked like he was in heaven as he bit into his almond pastry. “Oh, motherland,” he sighed, “no other cuisine can beat you.”

“Hear, hear,” Yulian and Kirill said, raising their cups in a salute to the portrait of the king. “Long live the King, and long live Ravka!”

Anton wisely kept silent and sipped at his own tea. Ravkan tea was sweeter than the tea that got to Fjerda, and much richer. The hit of caffeine was so strong he felt his heart skip a beat. Artemiy’s cheeks were flushed as he chugged his cup and went to pour more. “Kirill, put that cigarette out,” Artemiy scolded. “You’re like a Kerch, smoking indoors over tea.”

“Kerch don’t do that,” Kaz said, taking a sip of his own cup. He had his spectacles back on, though they were balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, and was apparently very interested in his book.

Kirill rolled his eyes and jammed his cigarette into the ash plate on the end table, extinguishing it. “You’re no fun, Tyoma.”

“Do not call me that,” Artemiy replied stiffly.

“Tyoma?” Anton asked. “You go by  _ Tyoma ?” _

“I  _ went _ by Tyoma as a child,” Artemiy corrected briskly. “Only my mother is allowed to call me that.”

Jes reentered, the box Anton had stolen from Brum in his arms. “Your identity, Princeling.”

Artemiy almost leapt to his feet to take it. “I’m retiring to shower,” he announced. He jabbed a finger at one of the servants. “Run me a bath,” he ordered, and with the servant in tow swept out of the room. Anton felt a stab of discomfort.

“Are you regretting setting the spoiled prince free?” Kirill teased.

“He’s grander than I realized,” Anton decided to say.

“He’s an asshole,” Yulian corrected. “The King will likely grant you a boon for your service. You might want to ask to be given a house in Os Kervo and never worry about the prince again.”

“He can’t be that terrible!” Anton protested. “Is he not a soldier?”

Kirill laughed mirthlessly, reaching into his jacket to produce another cigarette. “Just wait until you meet his mother.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Brum okay? Considering all he's done, I sure hope not.


	6. Intermission II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Few amplifiers are that powerful. The last one I knew of…” She trails off._  
>  “You’re wearing their bones around your wrist."

#  **INTERMISSION II**

 

“Your son is a quiet boy,” General Ignatiev comments to Nikolai when Artemiy has been seven for three months. “He doesn’t like to play, does he?”

Nikolai shrugs. They’re taking a stroll through the Palace compound, taking the long way around the pond. On the other side he can see a clump of blue-robed students, Tidemakers, training on the water. “He doesn’t have many children to play  _ with _ ,” he says. “Due respect, General, there are few nobles willing to let their children play with a grisha child, prince or no.”

“Does that bother you?” Ignatiev asks.

“Hm.” Nikolai watches one of the children fall into the water, then resurface just a moment later, soaked. “It doesn’t appear to bother him, so I don’t worry about it. I was not very social as a child myself.” He shrugs again. “He has his tutoring anyway. There’s little room in his schedule.”

General Ignatiev gives him a sideways look. “But you’ve heard the rumors.”

He scowls. “Every Grisha is accused of being possessed at one point or another. I will not stand for such demonization.”

“But you must admit…” Ignatiev insists. “This isn’t the Old Age, Your Majesty. There are dark things that lurk within souls.”

“The darkness has always been there,” Nikolai murmurs. “Darkness didn’t disperse when Alina killed the Darkling.”

Ignatiev makes the sign of the Saints at Alina’s name.  “Perhaps you should present him to Sankta Alina. To disperse the rumors.”

“Perhaps I should.” Nikolai’s lips twitch in amusement.  _ He has no idea. _

 

“Papa.” Artemiy is hovering just past Nikolai’s right elbow, making him start.  He wonders how long the boy has been standing there. “Look at what I drew.” He holds up the piece of paper in his hand.

Nikolai gently takes it and puts it under the light of his desk lamp. It’s a depiction of what must be him, although it is more like a blob with blonde hair and light blue clothes, and the darker blue blob next to him must be Zoya. Artemiy’s left a white space around her, like she’s glowing. Between them is a scribbled cloud of black. “Where are you, honey?” he asks.

Artemiy points at the dark cloud. “You can’t see me. It’s too dark.”

“Wh-why is it too dark?” Nikolai stammers.

Artemiy shrugs. “Mama’s bracelet sucks all the light into itself.”

He must mean her amplifier. Nikolai rings for a servant. “Fetch my wife,” he orders the servant that peeks into his office. Only a minute later Zoya enters, looking gorgeous as ever if a bit worn.

“What is it?” she asks immediately, seeing the look on his face. Nikolai motions for her to come closer, and she rounds his desk to hover at his left. Her eyes look over the drawing on his desk quickly. “Artemiy, did you draw this?”

“Yes.” Artemiy peers up at her. “Do you like it?”

She looks lost for words. Nikolai gently takes her left hand and pulls back her sleeve, revealing the heavy silver bangle around her wrist. “Does this come off?”

Zoya stiffens. “Why?” He holds her gaze for a moment and her shoulders slump. “Yes.”

“Take it off,” he asks gently. Zoya slips the fingers of her other hand between the bracelet and the inside of her wrist. With a soft  _ snap _ the bracelet opens up along a seam Nikolai had never noticed before. The inside of the bracelet is a pale ivory. With a sort of inward shudder he realizes that the bracelet is made of bone. Nikolai picks Artemiy up and sits him on his lap. 

Artemiy reaches forward and wraps his small hand around Zoya’s now-bare wrist. She sucks in a sharp breath, and he sees something pulse under her skin, a soft glow traveling through her. Artemiy pulls his hand away. Tendrils of pale, soft light follow him, linking his fingertips to Zoya’s wrist. “Light,” Artemiy says cheerily. The light swirls around his little hand as he flicks his wrist in a motion that reminds Nikolai of a girl he used to watch when he was young. She’s staring at him with a look on her face that Nikolai can’t name. Zoya rolls her shoulders, as if trying to shrug off the sensation, and puts her bracelet back on.

 

That night Zoya retires well before he does, but she’s still awake staring wide-eyed at the ceiling when he crawls into bed beside her. “He’s an amplifier,” she says. “And I can summon light.”

“You  _ are _ the light of my life,” Nikolai tries, wrapping an arm around her waist. She remains stiff as a board.

“Nikolai.” Her voice is tight. “He’s an  _ amplifier. _ ”

“We can protect him,” he assures her. “He’ll be safe within these walls. But I think we might want to keep this clandestine.”

Zoya lets him pull her closer. She runs a hand absently through his hair. “I thought he was going to kill me,” she admits. “It felt like he was trying to suck my soul out.”

“Is that...normal?”

“I haven’t felt that since,” she pauses for a moment, “the Darkling. Few amplifiers are that powerful. The last one I knew of…” She trails off.

“You’re wearing their bones around your wrist,” Nikolai guesses. Zoya lets out a breath.

“Yes.”

* * *

  
  


All things considered, Artemiy probably shouldn’t have dared Kirill to climb that fountain.

“I bet you can’t get all the way up there,” he teased. Kirill had snapped the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to have in half in his rage.

“I’ll race you to the top, asshole prince,” Kirill snarled. “See if you can haul your fat self up in twice the time I can climb it.”

“I’m  _ well-fed _ , Kirill,” Artemiy dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I’m not sure the statue of dear old Grandpa can hold both our weights.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Artemiy raised his eyebrows. Kirill jumped onto the rim.

“Coward.” Kirill gave him his deluxe Squaller grin.

Artemiy bristled. “I’m not a coward!”

“Prove it.”

Artemiy leapt onto the rim after him. In response, Kirill grabbed the stone arm of the fountain and pulled himself up, perching on Tsar Alexander III’s arm like a very blue cat. Artemiy jumped onto the pedestal, narrowly avoiding braining himself against his grandfather’s stone coat, and grabbed the shoulders, shimmying himself up until he was propped up on the statue’s shoulder. Kirill made a leap for the head. For a single moment Artemiy thought he’d missed, but with a grunt he managed to scrabble and sit himself entirely on top of the head. Artemiy crossed over to the perch Kirill had abandoned. “Don’t break my  _ dedya _ . The real one won’t get near my mom!” Artemiy joked.

Kirill laughed. “No one sane will get near your mom!” He pulled his feet onto the statue’s  _ papakha  _ and frog-squatted there unsteadily. A wicked grin spread across his features. “Do you think I can make this jump?”

“Absolutely not,” Artemiy deadpanned. “You will break your face open. Kirill, I am so serious.”

“Are you  _ worried  _ about me?” Kirill gave him his best puppy eyes.

Artemiy rolled his eyes. “Die then, idiot.”

Kirill brought his legs tighter underneath him. Just as he was about to take the leap, Artemiy shifted his weight, and he felt the statue tilt with him. “Oh, shit—” Artemiy felt himself belly flop forward as the entire statue cracked and toppled forward. The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the cobbles five feet away. The bowl of the fountain had cracked open from the force of the fallen statue. From under the tsar’s broken stone torso he could see Kirill’s legs. “Kirill?” he called. “Kirill!” he scrambled to his feet and ran over, trying to lift the stone off his poor friend’s face. He heard Kirill give a weak groan under all the rock. Thinking fast, Artemiy summoned a gust of wind to move the statue. It flew into the air and landed several metres away, shattering into a dozen more pieces. Kirill’s face was barely recognizable. His nose had been entirely crushed; it was a mess of dark bruising skin and blood, and one of Kirill’s eyes was closed. A ragged cut ran over his eyebrow and down to his lip. Artemiy knelt beside him and instinctively put his hands on Kirill’s face.

A warm glow spread through him, starting in his hands, as Kirill’s nose started to knit itself back together. The bruising faded as his nose bones snapped back into place and the cut on his face closed, leaving a pale scar in its place. Artemiy pulled his hands away and sat back as Kirill sat up slowly, feeling his face. The two of them stared at each other in shock. Belatedly Artemiy noticed the three shadows that were standing over him. Turning he saw Genya, Zoya, and Nikolai, each looking more confused than the next.

“It was his fault,” Kirill said. Turning back, Artemiy saw he was pointing at him.

“Ungrateful ass,” Artemiy snapped, but even as his father started berating him for his language, there was a crooked grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artemiy & Kirill's relationship is rlly important to me lol  
> btw please leave a comment telling me what you like and stuff! i love comments!! thank you!!


	7. V

#  **V: ARTEMIY**

 

Standing under the shower rubbing shampoo into his hair for the first time in almost a month, Artemiy finally felt like a person again. He spent a long hour letting the water fall on him, just kind of standing there. His hair had grown a lot since he’d last gotten it trimmed in Ulensk. “Ew, split ends,” he muttered as he got out and looked at himself in the mirror. There was stubble over his cheeks. Definitely not for the first time, he fondly reminisced of the days where he was a smooth-cheeked youth. Thankfully the servants had brought him a razor, and the uncomfortable, tense feeling in him faded when he rinsed his face and found himself returned to his regular, beardless form.  _ You look like a woman _ , Anton had said, what felt like a lifetime ago. He had no idea it was on purpose.

Artemiy’s freshly-washed  _ kefta  _ was folded over a table when Artemiy reentered his rooms. All Ravkan embassies had suites prepared in case a member of the Royal family visited, and the stewards always ordered at least one set of fresh clothes for each of the Royals, in case of situations like this. Artemiy pulled his cotton undershirt on and shouldered his  _ kefta _ , stepping over to the vanity to braid his hair. The shower had refreshed him, but the bags under his eyes were as present as ever. He needed sleep.

His stomach rumbled, and he amended his thought.  _ I need food. _ The moment he opened the door, he found himself inches away from Nina.

“Nina!” he yelped, stumbling back. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I was just about to knock, actually,” Nina replied. From behind her back she produced a paper bag that smelled delicious. “Sit. We need to talk.”

Artemiy took the bag and immediately opened it. “Pirozhki,” he sighed happily. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.” As per her orders, he walked backwards to his bed and sat down, digging into his first pastry.

Nina picked the chair in the corner up and deposited it in front of Artemiy. She sat down heavily. “You’ll be happy to know your parents have been informed of your safe retrieval. They are overjoyed, but I am sure you can expect quite the conversation when we go back to Os Alta.”

Artemiy winced. “My mother was mad, wasn’t she?”

“Heartbroken, actually,” Nina corrected coolly. “Now, tell me what happened after you were taken.”

Artemiy recounted his experience; the drug Anton had used to keep him asleep during the trek through Tsibeya, the lab in the Ice Court, the experiments they’d performed on him. By the time he was done, he’d finished all five of the pirozhkis in the bag. Nina jotted down notes on a pad she’d produced from some inner pocket of her  _ kefta  _ and limited her reactions to nods. “How long have I been missing?” he asked at the end.

“Thirteen days, give or take,” Nina said. “Anton was lying when he said the trip through Tsibeya was only a few days. It was a full week. They were snowed in.”

“Seven days to get to Djerholm, and then six more days in the Ice Court.” Artemiy balled up the paper bag. “I’m just glad I didn’t die.”

“So am I,” Nina replied. “Now tell me everything you know about the Fjerdan.”

“Anton?” Artemiy blinked. “His mother died when he was born, and his father two months earlier fighting pirates. Jarl Brum took him in because he had a debt to repay. He has no living family.”

“Is that all he told you?” Nina pressed. A flash of anger went through Artemiy.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” He stood, tossing the balled-up bag into the bin next to the vanity. “They must still be in the tea room.” Without waiting for her response, he stormed out of the room.

 

About halfway down the stairs it occurred to him that he’d literally no reason to react that strongly. Artemiy stopped, resting his hand on the railing, and sighed silently, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. The crawling feeling under his skin had returned, like he could feel someone watching him. He rubbed the embroidery on the sleeves of his  _ kefta  _ and took a grounding breath, and resumed walking downstairs.

“Well if it isn’t the asshole prince,” Kirill greeted him when he turned the corner. “Did you enjoy your shower, sweetheart?”

“Call me that again and I’ll cut your tongue out,” Artemiy threatened. Anton watched him from his place on the couch, looking wary.

“Play nice, both of you,” Yulian tittered in a very Genya-like fashion. “Have some tea, Artemiy.”

Artemiy sank back into the couch next to Anton. “You look much more comfortable now,” Anton noted quietly. He was nursing a cup of tea, and there was color high in his cheeks, like he was very warm.

“A shower does wonders,” Artemiy replied sweetly, pouring himself a cup and taking a sip. The rich taste rolled over his tongue, but he found himself wishing it were something a little stronger.

“Yeah, you don’t smell anymore,” Kirill joked, leaning back. Artemiy showed his amusement with a few choice gestures.

“You two seem close,” Anton noted with a raised eyebrow.

Kirill grinned dangerously. “I wouldn’t consider us as much friends as brothers.”

Artemiy gasped in mock surprise. “Did you just get  _ sentimental _ ? I’m shocked, Kiya.”

Kirill scowled furiously. “I just spent the last thirteen days convinced you were tied to some table in the Ice Court with the Ice King watching while some Kael bled you.”

“King Elrand does do that sometimes,” Anton said.

“You are barbarians.” Yulian slammed his cup onto the table. “I’m going to find some  _ kvas _ .”

“Don’t leave just yet.” Kaz rose, cane in hand, and approached the window. “Our messenger is here.” He opened the window and said, quite conversationally, “Good evening.”

A black clad person climbed into the room. Yulian leapt to his feet. “Relax,” the person said in Suli-accented Ravkan. Kaz gave the person’s hood a tug and revealed a soft-faced Suli woman, a brooding sort of look on her face.

“I’d like to introduce you to the original Wraith,” Kaz said. “Inej Ghafa.”

“Also your wife,” Inej noted airily.

“Also my wife,” Kaz agreed.

Inej unclasped her cloak and handed it off to Kaz, who took it dutifully and folded it up. “King Elrand is dead,” she informed the audience. “So is Jarl Brum.”

“What?” Anton demanded. “Brum is dead?!”

“He was poisoned,” Inej explained. “His last action was to put a bullet in Elrand’s neck.”

“Good Saints,” Kirill exclaimed, aghast. “We need to get out of this country.”

“Prince Rudolf will be crowned tomorrow,” Inej continued. “We can expect purges.”

“Rudolf won’t kill very many  _ drüskelle _ ,” Anton said automatically, “but I can’t speak for the regular army. Brum was popular.” His shoulders hunched, and he looked deeply uncomfortable. “Knowing Rudolf...we may be seeing executions en masse. We really do need to get out of here.”

Kaz calmly pulled off his gloves, revealing pale, narrow hands and nimble fingers. “Provided the city isn’t locked down, we could sail out tomorrow morning.”

“The city is locked down, Kaz,” Inej pointed out.

“We can probably still leave tomorrow morning.” Kaz pocketed his glasses. Turning towards the doorway, he yelled, “Jesper!”

Jesper poked his head around the frame. “Yes, dear?”

Kaz scowled. “Take a look around the city, see if we can get from here to the docks without getting strung up. When you make it to the docks tell Wylan and Privyet that we’re going to need muscle to get past the blockades. We may have to use the big guns.”

“I  _ love  _ the big guns,” Jesper said excitedly. Artemiy heard his footsteps run down the hall.

“Your Highness.” Artemiy turned at the voice to see a young servant boy standing just past the curtains, a folded telegram in his hands. “You have a telegram from Os Alta.”

Artemiy summoned a gentle breeze that carried the telegram safely into his hand. He unfolded it and read.

FRIDAY 21/3/1857 OS ALTA, RAVKA ON ORDER OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ZOYA NAZYLANESKY GENERAL OF THE SECOND ARMY ORDER OF THE KING’S EAGLE

MEET AT DVORNIKOV’S RESIDENCE SATURDAY NOON. STOP 

I AM GLAD YOU’RE ALIVE. STOP

ZOYA

 

“My mother wants to meet us at Dvornikov’s house tomorrow,” Artemiy said, folding up the paper again and jamming it into his pocket.

“I will not get on that terrifying contraption again!” Yulian yelped. “I will not, I swear it.”

“It was not that bad, Yucha,” Kirill dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Adrik and Nadia are excellent Squallers. It floated like a breeze.”

“Are you two talking about the  _ Windfarer _ ?” Artemiy asked incredulously.

Kaz sighed. “Is that Nikolai’s flying ship?”

“Hold on just a minute,” Anton interrupted. “King Nikolai has a what now?”

“The King of Ravka occasionally dabbles in sky piracy,” Inej explained.

“Sky  _ privateering _ ,” Kaz corrected. “If he wants to get us all out of Fjerda alive, kudos to him.”

* * *

 

##  ANTON

Anton was not prepared to meet the Queen of Ravka.

That was the only thing going through his mind as the party bustled around, preparing for the move to Dvornikov’s residence. “Nikolai sent us an excuse out of Djerholm,” Nina Zenik informed them when she returned to the room, her face schooled into an impeccable apathetic look, “but we’re on our own beyond that.” She tugged at the sleeves of her  _ kefta _ . “Even so, I’m not sure we want to announce to the whole world that we’re evacuating the embassy with a defector in tow.”

“As much as I despise subtlety,” Artemiy sighed dramatically, “I would much more despise losing Anton’s pretty face.”

 

Jesper returned a mere hour after leaving, which led Anton to wonder how on Earth he crossed the city in only sixty minutes. “Transport is arranged for sunrise,” he reported to Kaz. “We have been informed that ships are barred from leaving until the next King is crowned.”

“The Ravkans will get out by Dvornikov,” Kaz said. “We’ll head back together. Nina?”

Nina’s head snapped up. She’d been speaking to the Wraith, Inej, in a soft tone, holding Inej’s much smaller hands in her own. There was a soft look in her eyes as she gazed at the other woman. “What?”

“If you happen to come across Sturmhond, give him this.” Kaz tossed a letter into the air that Kirill sent sailing into Nina’s hand.

“Sturmhond does not reside in Os Alta,” Nina said, rolling her eyes as she pocketed it. Anton saw Artemiy press his lips together for a moment, as if suppressing a smile.

 

They left shortly before dawn. A dark-skinned servant in ivory led them down two long flights of stairs and then down an even longer underground hallway. The ceiling was low enough that Anton had to duck his head under the bare lightbulbs that illuminated the narrow passage. It smelled vaguely of dust. A heavy steel door was at the end, kept closed with three padlocks and another sliding mechanism. “Is this door to keep the devil out?” Artemiy asked innocently. The servant didn’t respond, something Anton found quite amusing.

The four grisha that accompanied Anton had traded their expensive  _ keftas  _ for Ravkan roughspun apparently made for this kind of trek underground. They’d given Anton another set, and a pair of strange, stiff boots, made of a substance Artemiy had called rubber. The prince had tied his hair into a bun at the base of his neck. As their meeting with the Queen approached, his mood seemed to be deteriorating. The coy smile had faded from his face as soon as he’d told his joke.

“This is a tunnel to Dvornikov’s house,” Nina informed him with a roll of her eyes. “Djerholm is its own prison right now.”

“I doubt Os Alta would be much different if they killed His Majesty,” Yulian said diplomatically.

“This is worse,” Anton said quietly. “Like they killed the King and his generals.”

Stony silence set over the group. The servant unlocked the last padlock and opened the door. “On that note,” Kirill said cheerily, taking the oil lamp the servant offered him, “into the dark hole we go.”

 

“Can I respectfully ask why you have an entire tunnel system?” Anton asked a good hour into their walk. Strangely enough, most of the tunnel they had gone through was taller than the cellar under the Embassy. They’d walked in professional silence; none of the Ravkans seemed to be in much of a mood for conversation. Kirill kept making disgruntled noises at the mud, only to get a pointed eye roll from Yulian. Artemiy and Nina walked together, silent and penitent.

“We’re a bit like mole rats,” Artemiy deadpanned. “During the civil war,  _ Sankta Alina  _ hid in a series of tunnels that spread through all of Ravka. My father ordered the tunnels collapsed when I was four.”

“You give away state secrets like kisses, Your Highness,” Kirill said breezily.

“Yet you’ve never gotten either.” Artemiy picked up his pace and forged ahead of the rest of the group, leaving Kirill with a look of shock on his face.

Anton approached Nina, who walked him go with a exasperated look on her face. “Is he okay?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Nina replied helpfully. “He’s uses his melodrama to hide his insecurities. If you hear crying it’s not Kirill nursing his wounded pride.”

“Hey!” Kirill protested. Nina ignored him.

Luckily, Anton managed to get out of the tunnel and into the very clean and illuminated cellar of Ambassador Dvornikov’s house without hearing any tears, although Artemiy admittedly looked very close. “They’re in the garden,” Dvornikov told them, and without a moment of rest the four Ravkans bounded up the stairs. Anton grimaced and ran after them.

Anton had never been in a Ravkan garden before, and he was instantly put off by how symmetrical everything was. Rows of perfectly-trimmed hedges and vibrant flowers lined the clean pebble path through the gardens, ending at a beautiful marble fountain that this early in the year held no water. The other half of the garden was just a field of luscious green grass. The only thing that felt a bit out of place was the giant ship with wings. “What,” he said, pointing, “is that.”

“The  _ Windfarer _ ,” Nina said. “His Majesty’s second favorite child.”

The four grisha paused just before the fountain and straightened out. Artemiy had gone silent. He gnawed on his bottom lip and brooded. Kirill ran a hand through his perfect golden hair. He caught Anton’s eye and winked. “Like what you’re seeing?”

_ Are all Ravkan men like this? _ Anton wondered as he looked away quickly, stammering something that he hoped approximated a ‘no’. With Nina and Artemiy in the front and Yulian and Kirill close behind them, he took up the rear of their little parade.

A dark-haired grisha in a deep blue  _ kefta  _ was leaned against the hull of the airship next to the gangplank when they approached. As he straightened and turned to face them, Anton realized with a start that he was missing his left arm. “It’s good to see you alive, Your Highness,” he said cheerfully. Artemiy’s expression broke into a crooked grin as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the older man.

“It’s good to see you, Adrik,” Artemiy said. “I assure you I’m as pleased to be alive.”

Adrik clapped Artemiy on the shoulder with his hand. “Not for long.”

A raspy voice came from above Anton’s head. “No. Not for long.”

Anton barely managed to step back as the tallest man he had ever seen swung himself over the side of the hull and landed next to Adrik. He was easily a head taller than Artemiy. His hair was reddish-blonde, the color of fox fur. An innumerable amount of tiny scars criss-crossed his face, segmenting his brows and his short, trimmed beard. He wore a blue officer’s coat with golden fur lining and wore brown leather gloves. A pair of beautiful, ivory-handled revolvers hung from his belt. The painting was not true to life, but Anton knew who this was.

“Father.” Artemiy hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you seeing this, Major?” Nikolai Lantsov said, looking at his son down his nose. “The boy is apologizing for getting in and out of the Ice Court alive. I’d say he learned a thing or two about humbleness.” Not waiting for any reaction, he pulled Artemiy into a tight embrace. 

Artemiy’s shoulders slumped as he sank against his father. Beside Anton, Kirill let out a soft breath of relief. It occurred to Anton that Kirill may have feared that Nikolai would do something drastic. The king pulled away and held Artemiy at arm’s length, his hands on his shoulders. He turned back towards the airship. “Are you just going to hide up there forever?” he called up. A long moment later, another person vaulted over the side, just past Kirill.

“What is the point of the gangplank if none of you accursed Ravkans use it?” Anton exploded, throwing his hands into the air. Kirill threw his hands over his mouth to cover his obvious laughter. As he shifted, he got his first proper look at the person that had just joined them and was now staring at him. Her hair was like compressed shadow, the darkest shade he had ever seen, and was put up in some complicated braid that showed off a long, pale neck. She was stunningly beautiful, so much so that he felt almost as if he had run out of air, and part of him knew he was staring inappropriately, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Her face was freckled, her lips painted a vivid, terrifying red, but it was the glare that she gave him that really told him who she was.

Artemiy took a step back and knelt, his head lowered. The Queen of Ravka, Zoya Nazyalensky, dragged her eyes slowly from Anton to her son. “The point of having an unused gangplank,” she said, her voice smooth and surprisingly deep, “is that it makes jumping over the side more dramatic.” She knelt in front of Artemiy and took his head in her hands, tilting his head upwards until their eyes met. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said simply. Artemiy gave a loud sob and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her  _ kefta.  _ Their eyes met again, and Anton learned the first thing about Zoya: she adored her son with everything in her. There was a reproachful look on her face, protective of the crying boy in her arms.

_ He’s just a lost little boy,  _ Anton thought with no small amount of discomfort. The cocky, self-confident prince he’d broken out of the Ice Court was gone. Looking over at Kirill, he saw the other man had stopped laughing, and was looking at Artemiy, shaking with sobs, with a look that was undeniably one of pure horror.  _ This doesn’t make sense,  _ he thought.  _ Something here is broken. _

“We need to go,” Anton found himself saying. “This place is a powder keg.”

Nikolai fixed him with a sharp gaze. “Who are you?”

Anton raised his chin slightly. “Anton Helvar,” he said. “Former _drüskelle_ , current enemy of Fjerda.”

“He saved my life, Father,” Artemiy sniffed, pulling back. His mother rose and helped him up. “We can’t possibly leave him here.”

Nikolai ran a hand through his hair. “Of course not.” He crossed his arms. “Adrik. Kirill. Cuff him.”

“What?” Anton and Artemiy demanded in tandem. Kirill’s eyebrows flew up his face, and Yulian looked like he’d been struck.

“Your Majesty,” Nina interjected quickly, “Anton is trustworthy. I can vouch for him.”

“That’s all well and good, Major,” Nikolai said smoothly, “but I will not have a _drüskelle_ wandering about my airship. When we arrive in Os Alta, Mr. Helvar will be free to go.”

Artemiy was whispering furiously in his mother’s ear. Zoya scowled as she listened. As Artemiy stepped away, Zoya took Nikolai by the ear and bent him far enough over to whisper in his ear. “Absolutely not!” Nikolai started loudly, but as Zoya continued, the look of outrage on his face faded. He straightened again. He gave Artemiy a very hard look. “I will not cuff you, Mister Helvar,” he said carefully. “But know you are on very thin ice.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.” Anton bowed.

“Hm. Everybody on!” Nikolai spun and climbed the gangplank in three easy steps. “We have a tight schedule to keep!”

“Thank you, Father,” Artemiy said quietly.

“You’ll pay me back later,” Nikolai replied airily, and just like that he was gone.


	8. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King decides Anton's fate.

#  **VI: NINA**

Nina made her most valiant attempt to flee belowdecks before Zoya caught her, but the Queen had lightning reflexes (pun slightly intended) and had her by the arm before Nina had even gotten halfway up the gangplank. “Let’s talk inside,” she said coolly, and Nina got the vague feeling that she was in big trouble.

“What did I tell you about adopting Fjerdan children?” Zoya snapped as soon as they were inside the captains’ quarters.

“...Anton?” Nina asked. “Artemiy insisted.”

“And what did I tell you about listening to Artemiy when it comes to handsome boys in his age group?!” Zoya threw her hands into the air, exasperated. “We can’t keep bringing enemies of the state into Os Alta.”

“He’s not an enemy of the state,” Nina insisted. “He’s just a boy.”

“A boy who was trained specifically to kill us.” Zoya glared at her.

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Nina pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. 

“ _ Nina. _ ” Zoya’s hand was cold as she wrapped her fingers around Nina’s wrist and pulled her hand away from her face. “Since when do you have so much love for a _drüskelle_?”

Nina hung her head. “He’s Matthias’s nephew.”

Zoya was silent. Then, “I see.” Lifting her head, Nina saw Zoya’s expression soften. “Fine,” she conceded. “But if something happens….”

“He will be my responsibility, Your Majesty,” Nina promised. “Just give him a chance.”

“I trust you, Nina.” Zoya said gently.

 

After their talk, Nina retreated below decks and fell asleep in some corner. She awoke to a boot gently nudging her. “We’re here,” Zoya said. “Genya is, uh, furious.”

“Did you...not tell her where you were going?” Nina asked as she stood and rolled her shoulders, wincing at the stiffness.

“We didn’t tell her we were leaving at all, actually.” Zoya nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Clandestine missions and all that.”

“How did you sneak the  _ Windfarer  _ out of the country?” Nina wondered, aghast. The two of them made their way on deck. Nikolai was cornered on the far end by a red-haired woman in an even fierier  _ kefta _ . Despite the fact that Genya was over a foot shorter than Nikolai (and also outranked her), he was obviously terrified.

“Genya, my darling,” Zoya called. “Please don’t give him an aneurysm.”

Genya spun around. “You!” She wagged a furious finger at Zoya. “Get over here right now!”

“How about you come  _ here _ ?” Zoya swept her arm in a lazy arc and Genya was propelled forward on a gust of wind that deposited her safely right in front of Zoya. She wrapped an arm around Genya and pulled her close. “Did anyone give birth to demon children while we were gone?”

Genya stared at her in shock before stomping furiously on Zoya’s foot. She yelped and jumped back as Genya crossed her arms and glared at her. “Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “No message, no escort, no indication of where you’d gone. What were you thinking?!”

“We were barely gone six hours,” Zoya tried haplessly.

Genya was not having it. “What if you’d been shot down? We’d never know what happened to you!”

Nina wisely remained silent.

“That is so unlikely!”

Genya grabbed Zoya by the collar and pulled her down to eye-height. “Do not  _ ever  _ do that again.”

Zoya wrapped Genya’s hand in hers. “I promise that I will tell you next time I decide to leave for Djerholm on an airship in the middle of the night.”

Genya nodded once, satisfied, and turned to Nina. “How was Djerholm?”

“Filled with murderers,” Nina said. “We brought Tyoma back, if you were wondering.”

Artemiy’s head peeked around the captain’s quarters. “ _ Don’t call me that! _ ”

His look of anger instantly melted into one of terror as Genya turned to face him. “Young man,” she said clearly, “you are in  _ so much trouble _ .”

 

“Is it always this informal?” Anton asked tentatively as Nina steered him away from the main party, towards the Little Palace.

“Genya and Zoya are...very close,” Nina said carefully, unsure how he would react. “Genya is almost like a second mother to Artemiy.”

“Ah.” He nodded once. “I don’t think it’s very fair that Artemiy gets two mothers and I get zero.”

Nina laughed, surprised. “Life is very unfair in the distribution of mothers.”

Two  _ grishevsky okhrana,  _ the elite guards of the Little Palace and the triumvirate, watched her and Anton pass through warily. The  _ grevskiy _ , as Zoya called them, wore all-white and went everywhere armed with the latest rifles and weaponry. They wore white helmets that obscured most of their features. They closed the gates as soon as Nina had passed them. “Guards?” Anton asked as they slipped out of earshot.

“The personal guard of the Triumvirate,” Nina supplied. “You reek of Fjerdan.”

“Perhaps I should shower.” Anton gave Nina a small, crooked smile. “I’m assuming I should be clean when the King indentures me to a noble in Os Kervo.”

“You’re even less optimistic than I am.” Nina ran a hand through her hair. “Nikolai is...not happy that we brought you.”

Anton shrugged. “I didn’t think he would be. But I trust Artemiy.”

“You’ve barely known him three weeks,” Nina pointed out.

Anton held her gaze. “I trust him,” he repeated, more firmly this time. He had a determined look in his eyes. “I saved his life. I know I won’t regret it.”

“Artemiy is not a child anymore,” Nina said, “but in many ways, he is still just a boy.”

“He’s only seventeen,” Anton replied. “He has time, don’t you think?”

“We’re all running out of time, Anton,” Nina said. “The world is changing. We cannot tell what will happen next.” They bounded up the two flights of stairs to the third floor in silence. Nina rang for a servant to unlock the door to the Diplomat’s guest quarters. “My quarters are through the door at the far end of the hall,” Nina said, pointing. “You’ll stay here. If you need anything, ring for a servant. Unless Nikolai decides to arrest you, you’re a guest of the Triumvirate.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crow pin she’d recovered from Kaz. “Keep this.” She pressed it into his hand. “I will protect you.”

Anton wrapped his hand tightly around the pin. “Thank you.” He turned to enter his room, paused, and turned back for another moment. “If you see him, please remind Artemiy that we have an agreement.”

“I will,” Nina promised, and Anton closed the door.

* * *

  
  


##  ANTON

 

Anton trusted Nina Zenik. This, while not one of the irrefutable facts about Anton’s personality (there were none at this present moment, considering that he was sprawled in a bathtub in Os Alta as a guest of the Grisha Triumvirate), was one of the few things that he was considering reliable at this moment. Everyone in this city had a secret of some sort, but Nina had looked at him so genuinely it was hard to distrust her.

_ Why does she care so much about me?  _ He wondered, slowly sliding under the water.  _ I don’t know her. The only thing we have in common is that we both want to keep Artemiy alive. _

“Sir Helvar,” a servant poked his head around the door, startling Anton and almost making him dive underwater, “Prince Artemiy requests your presence.”

“Thanks,” Anton mumbled unsurely. “I’ll be right out.”

 

A beautifully-embroidered Ravkan-style suit lay neatly on his bed when Anton exited the bathroom a few minutes later. The blue jacket fit snugly at his shoulders. Anton wondered how they’d gotten clothes that fit him so well. The pants were fitted and had special buckles to keep them tucked under the pair of shiny black boots placed next to his bed. Anton tied his hair into a bun and knocked lightly on the servant’s entrance. “Can you take me to Prince Artemiy, please? I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the palace layout.”

The door opened and the ivory-robed servant slipped out. “Right this way, sir,” he said briskly. The servant walked surely through the gilded halls of the Little Palace, then through a covered passage that connected the Little Palace to the Grand Palace. The windows in the hallways stretched floor-to-ceiling, looking over a vast cobbled courtyard. A gaggle of children in brightly-colored  _ keftas  _ milled around in the courtyard, relaxing around the central fountain. As Anton passed by, he watched one child in Etherealki colors swoop his arms and send a wave splashing on another. Strangely it occured to Anton that he had never thought of Grisha being children.  _What did I think?_ he wondered, half-amused.  _That they just sprouted fully grown from the depths of the Underworld?_

 

“Right through here, sir,” the servant said. Anton blinked. He stood in front of a pair of double-doors. A great  _ A  _ was engraved into the surface and gilded. The left door was just slightly ajar.

Artemiy was sprawled across a divan when Anton entered. He’d traded his beautiful  _ kefta  _ for a blank white shirt and dark trousers. His shoes were discarded. “How are you liking the hot water?” Artemiy asked, smiling slyly as Anton sat down on another couch.

“I would still be asleep in the tub if you hadn’t called me,” Anton answered honestly. Artemiy gave a wonderful, melodic laugh. Anton felt a blush climb up his neck.

Artemiy motioned at the coffee table, laden with pastries, and took a biscuit for himself. “You’ve never had food like this,” he said. “Trust me. Try one.”

Anton chose a macaron and popped it in his mouth. It almost seemed to melt in his mouth. “Sweet Djel,” Anton exclaimed, “can you knight the chef that made these?”

Artemiy smiled. “Your wish is my command, Anton.”

The blush that had just faded came back in full force. Anton turned away. “Will I be allowed to stay here?” he asked. “I mean, in the palace.”

“If I have my way, yes.” He heard Artemiy shift, and felt him rest his hand lightly on Anton’s knee. “You don’t have to do anything. You can be the Gentleman of the Bedchamber.”

“What Kerch nonsense is that?” Anton laughed, turning back towards him. “I’d rather be useful.”

Artemiy leaned back. “There is one possibility,” he said. “The School will never have enough teachers, and your unique combat training could be...useful.”

“You want me to train Grisha!?”

“I also want you to lend us your knowledge of Fjerdan weaponry,” Artemiy replied, “but I thought I’d ease you into it.”

“You...you trust me near Grisha children?” Anton asked, aghast.

Artemiy frowned, and the look he gave Anton filled him with no small amount of fear. “Would you hurt a child, Anton?”

Anton looked down at his hands. “I don’t know, Artemiy,” he said honestly. “Part of me is still telling me to kill you.”

Artemiy sighed and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “This world is marching towards war, Anton,” he said suddenly. “My people have suffered so greatly these past fifty years. If I can do anything to prepare them for whatever comes next, I will.” He balled up his hands into fists. “Even if it means forcing you to serve me.”

The change of demeanor startled him. Artemiy was volatile, more paranoid and stubborn than Anton had expected. “You won’t have to,” Anton said, with a lot more courage than he felt. “I will help you, Artemiy.” His mouth felt dry. “I promise.”

 

They talked until a steward called Artemiy away to get dressed for the audience. Anton watched Artemiy disappear through the door to his bedroom and rose slowly, getting a good look at the room. A Second Army banner, looking a bit worse for wear, hung on a far wall, flanked by paintings of Artemiy’s parents. Anton thought it was kind of weird that he had paintings of his parents hanging in his tea room, but it was also quite possible that this was some sort of rule in the palace. He stepped closer to get a closer look at the banner. In the center of the banner, surrounded by the symbols of the Grisha orders, was a black circle with a thin sliver of silver on the left side, like the moon in eclipse. A tag stuck out from behind it. Anton unfolded it and read.  _ In commemoration of the promotion of Major Zoya Nazyalensky under the tenth Darkling and King Alexander III of Ravka. April 16th, 1834. _

“My mother was seventeen when she was named Major of the Second Army,” Artemiy said from behind him. “She answered directly to the Darkling.”

“That’s incredible,” Anton replied, turning back. Artemiy wore a sky blue fitted waistcoat with embroidery he recognized from the Squaller keftas, but in gold instead of silver, a black frock coat over it. His breeches were cream-colored. He gave Anton a lazy grin as he produced a pair of white gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. His hair was braided and tied with a ribbon.

“Are you ready for your audience?” Artemiy asked, tossing his hair back and stepping close to Anton to straighten out his jacket. “Turn around and let me do your hair.”

Anton obediently turned, and he felt Artemiy’s deft hands undo his bun and braid his hair with frightening speed. “Perfect,” Artemiy said once he finished. “You look like a prince.”

“The only prince here is you,” Anton pointed out, blushing. Was he going to blush every time Artemiy said something sweet and flirtatious?

Artemiy pressed a soft kiss to Anton’s jaw. “We can both be princes.” He turned Anton back around and ran his thumb along Anton’s lapels. “Any pins to declare before we go down?”

Anton blinked out of his stunned haze and managed to motion to his breast pocket. Artemiy pulled the crow pin Nina had given him and pinned it over Anton's heart. “Excellent.”

 

The thing that terrified Anton the most about the throne room was absolutely the number of people assembled. At least two hundred nobles in vibrant colors milled on either side of the red carpet as King Nikolai and his Queen held court. Nikolai himself was ninety feet away, lazing in his throne, one arm outstretched to rest his gloved hand over Zoya’s. Zoya rested her head on her free hand,  _ kefta  _ on and unbuttoned over a startlingly practical outfit of fitted black trousers and a white shirt. A gleaming gold circlet was braided into her beautiful black hair. As she straightened out to get a better look at him, Anton eyed the faint glint of her wedding ring on her left hand.

“All hail  _ tsesarevich  _ Artemiy Vasily Nikolaevich Lantsov, Crown Prince of the Ravkan Empire.” Artemiy strode forward with the kind of confidence Anton could only dream of, a self-assured smile on his face. He pushed Anton along with one hand resting lightly on his back. When they reached the foot of the dias, the two of them knelt.

What felt like a century later the ushers spoke again. “Major Nina Romanovna Zenik of the Second Army, deputy of Consul-General Genya Kostyk.”

“Rise.” Nikolai’s gravelly voice sounded bored and out of use. Anton stood, and the King pushed himself upright as well. Combined with the elevation of the dias, Nikolai was terrifyingly tall; Anton barely reached his shoulders. “State your issue and identity.”

“Sergeant Anton Helvar Brum of the First Regiment of the King’s Drüskelle,” Anton droned obediently. The crowd shifted uneasily at the name  _ Brum. _

“How old are you?”

“I am eighteen.”

“Why are you here?”

Anton frowned. “You know why.”

Nikolai’s laugh was gentler and warmer than he’d expected. “Humor me.”

“I broke Prince Artemiy out of the Ice Court,” Anton said, “and now King Rudolph probably wants me dead.”

“Yes,” Nikolai agreed. “The first thing I must do, Mister Helvar, is thank you. You have saved my son’s life, which I know from personal experience is no easy task.” He eyed Anton critically, as if he were weighing his options. “What is your extent of military service, Mister Helvar?”

“My first deployment was to the Wandering Isle,” Anton said. Zoya’s eyes flicked from the floor to him. He suppressed a shudder. Something about Zoya’s demeanor made him feel like he was a piece of meat. “I was sent as medical reinforcement.”

Nikolai hummed. “Did you have any active participation?”

Anton grit his teeth. “One,” he said. “The siege of Faehaven.”

Zoya growled in rage. Nikolai’s eyebrows flew up his forehead. Behind him, he heard the nobles murmur discontentedly.

“I was offered the King’s Legion medal for my work keeping the soldiers alive,” Anton continued. “I declined it.”

Nikolai’s face went hilariously blank. “You turned down the highest honor that can be given to a Fjerdan soldier?”

Anton looked past him at Zoya, who was watching him intently. “I will not be honored for being complicit in a massacre.”

His words caused another stir in the crowd. “I am glad we understand each other,” Zoya said. Her voice was soft, but Anton got a sudden urge to run for the exit. 

“We’ll return shortly,” Nikolai announced quickly. “Come, Artemiy.”

“Yes, Father,” Artemiy murmured. He kept his head down as he climbed the steps to the dias after Nikolai. They paused only briefly, so Nikolai could offer Zoya a hand as she rose, and they disappeared through a door behind the thrones that Anton didn’t notice until it opened.

He stood there silently, shoulders squared. Looking around without moving his head, he saw Genya, the Corporalki Consul, standing beside a dark-haired man in Materialki purple. Nina stood just past them, dressed in red. Their eyes met for a moment, and Nina gave an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. Anton took a deep breath.  _I can do this._

 

The Ravkan monarchs returned some minutes later. Artemiy’s face had gone stony. One of his cheeks seemed a little pinker than the other. “Anton Helvar,” Nikolai announced, “you are officially in custody of Crown Prince Artemiy Vasily. You are his servant, and you will serve him as if he were the Fjerdan king. If you disobey orders of your House, you will be executed without trial. Do you accept these terms?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”  Anton bowed. “Thank you.”

“The court is dismissed.” He heard Nikolai’s steps retreat back to his throne. “Leave us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I have the update schedule of a Homestuck longfic author. I have no excuse.
> 
> We will revisit Faehaven at a later date. It's in-world significance will become greater as the plot progresses.


	9. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemiy shows Anton around. Something terrible happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory warning: non-explicit descriptions of violence in this chapter.

#  **VII: ARTEMIY**

Artemiy’s cheek stung.

His mother had slapped him soundly across the face the minute they were safely in the back room. “ _Faehaven_ ,” she hissed at him, like he hadn’t heard it clearly when Anton had said it.

Nikolai pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling. “I let you out of my sight _one time_ …”

“Why is that so bad?!” Artemiy exclaimed. “He’s already Jarl Brum’s adopted son! How much worse can it get?!”

“Faehaven was a massacre, Artemiy!” Zoya snapped. “The Fjerdans slaughtered innocent children!”

“Though he had no part in it,” Nikolai interjected. “He said it himself that he condemned it.”

Zoya gave him a scandalized look. “Are you honestly considering—”

“Zoya.” Nikolai placed his hands on her shoulders. “He was fifteen.”

“Artemiy,” Zoya forced out between gritted teeth. “Wait in the hall.”

Artemiy agreed hurriedly and left through the back door, sitting down on the ground next to the door. The walls were thick enough that he didn’t hear his parents speaking—or yelling, which was probably more likely. It was an eternity later when Nikolai let him come back.

 

“What’s wrong with your cheek?” Anton asked, startling him. Artemiy’s hand instinctively flew to the sore side of his face.

“My mother is a fickle woman,” Artemiy said, “and you dropped quite the bombshell back there.”

Anton looked down at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Artemiy shrugged. “I get slapped a lot.” He fiddled with his cuffs. “What would you like to do now?”

“Now?” Anton echoed.

“Yes,” Artemiy replied. “Would you like me to show you around the Palaces?” At Anton’s stunned expression, he continued, “we should change into something more comfortable, though. This jacket is not made to accommodate a soldier’s body.”

“You’re a bit well-fed, Artemiy,” Anton pointed out slyly. “But I’d like that.”

Artemiy swept a stray lock of hair from his face. “Well then. I’ll have them send a change of clothes to your rooms.”

 

Truth be told, he liked how Anton looked in his fancy clothes, but he looked much calmer when Artemiy met him in the hall, dressed in grey clothes of Fjerdan make. Artemiy had traded his court clothes for a shirt he could actually move in and his _kefta_ unbuttoned over it. “I’ll show you the Little Palace first,” Artemiy said. “It’s prettier than the Grand Palace, in my opinion.”

“Are you biased?” Anton had let his hair down and swept it over one shoulder. Artemiy found himself stupidly fixated on a thin scar on Anton’s neck.

“Quite possibly.” Trying to shake himself out of his haze, Artemiy jumped onto the staircase bannister and slid down, terrifying a pair of Healers going upstairs in the process. Anton stayed at the top of the stairs, aghast. “It’s not that dangerous!” Artemiy called up, his voice echoing off the marble of the stairwell. “It’s fun, I promise.”

Anton was obviously rolling his eyes at him, but nimbly slid down on the railing. “It’s a miracle you aren’t dead yet, Your Highness,” he said airily, slipping past him. “Try not to injure yourself before we even leave the building.”

“You’re no fun.” Artemiy bounded down the next flight of stairs with Anton close behind him. “Class is just now breaking for recess, so beware of small children.”

 

They left through a forgotten side door in the east sunroom, away from the nobles that milled constantly in the front gardens. This exit had a stone path leading up the hill past the School, to a small, unused cottage that Nikolai insisted on maintaining in perfect condition for reasons the adults would never tell him. It was also the perfect place to get a first look at the lake.

“Woah.” Anton’s eyes widened. “I’ve never seen water so blue.”

“I learned to summon on those banks,” Artemiy said, smiling mostly to himself. “Also how to sail and swim.”

“Brum taught me to swim by tossing me in a freezing river.”

“You really _are_ a baby bird dropped in a river,” Artemiy said, impressed.

“You remember saying that?”

Artemiy frowned. “That and not much else.”

Anton quieted. “I never really got a chance to apologize to you,” he said after a moment. “I know I was just following orders, but...that’s no excuse. I almost killed you.”

“You also called me a woman,” Artemiy sniffed. “That was a greater injury to my dignity, if I’m being honest.”

“Your face is perfectly round!”

“That is not a sign of femininity!” Artemiy put his hands on his hips. “My mother has a very angular face and she is the pinnacle of female beauty.”

Anton rolled his eyes. “You Ravkans are so strange.” He tugged at Artemiy’s arm. “Show me the lake up close.”

 

Anton eventually drifted towards the buildings as the sun began to set and the icy early spring breeze started blowing. “These are the Materialki workshops,” Artemiy said, motioning to the cluster of steel-and-glass warehouses clustered around the School. “We shouldn’t go in there—too many flammable things—so let’s go onto the classrooms.”

They passed a dozen third-year Corporalki, who greeted him politely with, “hello, Your Highness!” Anton watched them walk off with a sort of bemusement.

“What?” Artemiy asked. Anton blinked.

“They’re so young,” he murmured. “In Fjerda...we don’t think of Grisha as children. Innocent, and just like the rest of us.”

“Hm.” Artemiy felt a sudden chill, and wrapped his arms around himself. “I’ll take you with me to classes tomorrow. I’m helping my mother teach the Squallers.”

 

Long after they’d had dinner and Anton had gone to bed, Artemiy wandered the half-lit halls of the Grand Palace. He found himself hovering unsurely outside his parents quarters. He hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to them. Show them what had happened.

The door swung open. Nikolai stopped centimetres from Artemiy’s face. “Sweet Sankta Alina!”

“Papa,” Artemiy said. “Can I...come in?”

Nikolai immediately shooed him inside. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he said, and swept down the hall in a breath.

Zoya stood like a ghost in the doorway to the bedroom, in a white silk shirt that was obviously Nikolai’s. “Sit.” She motioned to the couch. Artemiy wandered over and sat, kicking off his boots and pulling his knees against his chest. Zoya sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around him, and pulled him close.

Nikolai reentered with a platter of biscuits and a servant tailing him with tea. “Sugar or brandy?”

“Brandy,” Artemiy and Zoya said simultaneously.

Nikolai smiled crookedly. “I’ll be the sober one, then.”

Artemiy drained his tea before he could muster the courage to talk, his head pressed into Zoya’s shoulder. He set his cup down and reached to pull off his gloves. He felt his parents heartbeats, always synchronized, increase in tandem. He tugged his right glove off and showed them his palm, covered in thin lightning burns, disappearing into his sleeve.

“ _No._ ” There was a thunderous crash as lightning struck outside, making Nikolai jump. He fumbled for his spectacles and knelt at Artemiy’s feet, grabbing his hand and examining it furiously.

“They’ve discovered the technology in Mama’s gloves,” Artemiy explained weakly as his parents fussed. “They’re experimenting on their Squallers in captivity. They want to see how much electricity their bodies can take.”

“This has gone on long enough,” Nikolai said hoarsely, his eyes filled with rage. “I’ll see the Fjerdan Ambassador tomorrow. We’ll have the Second Army to escort him to the border.”

“Beasts.” Zoya took Artemiy’s other, still-gloved hand and pulled the glove off, revealing the identical set of scars. “This is…” she grit her teeth, a deep scowl on her face. “They dare hurt my prince.”

“Could you consider the international repercussions of this before you actually do it?” Artemiy tried.

“I’ve been considering the international repercussions since scouts alerted us to your presence in the Ice Court!” Zoya snapped. She leapt to her feet in a burst of energy, the air around her cracking like a firework about to go off. “Fjerda cannot get away with imprisoning and torturing a member of the Royal Family. They must be punished.”

“I will speak with the Kerch and guarantee their support,” Nikolai continued, rising to calm her. “They’ve been begging for oil for years. Now they’ll get it in exchange for a hefty price.”

“You’re going to war,” Artemiy realized with no small trace of fear.

His parents turned to gaze at him. “You should head to bed,” Zoya said after a moment. “It’s late.”

“Sending me away to discuss the adult things, right?” Artemiy pulled his boots on and stood. “Old enough to go to war, but not old enough to start one.”

“Do you want to send thousands to their deaths, Artemiy Vasily?” Nikolai asked coldly.

“Do _you?”_

* * *

 

## NINA

 

Nina was awake long before dawn. “Consul Kostyk is requesting your presence in the War Room, _Mayor_ ,” a servant murmured in her ear. “There’s tea on the dresser.”

Even with the sky still a murky shade of blue, servants rushed around the corridors in hushed, frightened huddles, and guards jogged through in pairs and triplets. Genya’s face when she entered the War Room was no more reassuring. She and King Nikolai were leaned over an unrolled map of Os Alta, muttering angrily. “Good morning, Major Zenik,” Nikolai greeted her. “There’s been a murder.”

“What?” Nina tried to get a good look at the map. A thin alleyway in the eastern Lower City, barely important enough to appear on the map, was circled in red ink. “Sweet Saints, who?”

“Anastasiya Zakharovna Volgorov,” Genya said. “Squaller. Found disemboweled and dismembered in a ditch in the East Slum.”

“What was an Etherealki doing in the Lower City?” Nina wondered.

“Zoya sent her to protect a shipment of vaccines being taken to Yeletov. There’s a Queen’s Pox outbreak there.” Nikolai tapped the circled alley, and then moved his finger over to the clearly labeled _Central Station._ “She must have been heading back to the trams.”

“She was alone?” Nina pressed.

“No,” Genya said heavily. “She was with Yulian.”

Nina’s words momentarily failed her. “We’re looking for him,” Nikolai continued hurriedly, “and we won’t rest until whoever did this is on the gallows.”

“Why would someone do this?”

Nikolai sighed. “It seems premeditated. I’ll send my men to...investigate.”

“Someone targeted Anastasiya on purpose?” Nina asked.

“Not Anastasiya,” Nikolai corrected. “Grisha.”

 

Os Alta awoke slowly but steadily as the sky lightened. The trams hissed to life as Genya and Nina’s automobile weaved patiently down towards Central Station. It was hard to believe Nina had been here only a week ago, her heart heavy with worry for Artemiy. Now she had returned to collect the corpse of one of her soldiers.

The only way into the alley where they had found Anastasiya’s body was cordoned off and under guard of six police officers in heavy black coats, their pistols visible as a threat and a promise. They bowed as Nina and Genya passed through, murmuring respectful _good morning, General, good morning, Mayor._ A group of lean, plain-clothed officers milled around the scene, investigating. Even before one approached, Nina knew who they were: the Department for Protecting Public Security and Order, better known as the _Okhrana,_ Nikolai’s secret police. They answered to no law but the King’s word. “Vladimir Grigoryevich Malutin,” the leader of the group introduced himself, though Nina already knew who he was. “She’s over here. Come.”

Anastasiya’s body was covered with a white sheet, stained with blood. “I’m not sure you want to see the state she’s in,” Vladimir said. “It’s...unsettling for the strongest of us.”

Nina leaned down and pulled the sheet off at once. Genya hissed at the sight; Vladimir looked away. “Have you found the rest of her?” Nina asked after a moment.

“...We found her arms by the river.” Vladimir fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a cigarette. “We haven’t found her, uhm, the rest of her face yet.”

“This is barbarism,” Genya said.

Nina rested a hand on Genya’s shoulder. The sight of Anastasiya’s ruined body seemed to have shaken her deeply. “Send her body back to the Little Palace,” she ordered Vladimir. “Keep an eye out for another missing Grisha—a Heartrender named Yulian Romanovich Ivanov.”

Vladimir opened his mouth to speak, but a commotion silenced him. _“Dlya Ravka!”_ a grainy voice yelled as Nina turned. A group of slummers fought half-heartedly with the police guarding the alley. “Kill the witches! Burn the Grisha!” Their voices melded together incoherently, making Nina’s head pound. Vladimir reached into his jacket, pulled out a wooden-gripped Zemeni pistol, and fired a round into the air. The crowd quieted.

“Step away or face arrest!” he yelled. “Whoever has not dispersed in the next minute will be arrested and brought to the Queen. Will you face her wrath!?”

The crowd stumbled away, pushed back by police, save for one red-haired youth who stayed put, his hands balled into fists. Faster than Nina could process, he reached into his pocket and threw an object into the air—a grenade. Nina tackled Genya onto the ground and pulled the hood of her _kefta_ over her head as it exploded above them, sending a wave of sweltering heat and shrapnel into her back. A shot rang out. Nina turned back and saw the young man crumpled on the ground. Vladimir’s gunsmoke mixed with the grey haze of the grenade gone off. “Are you alright?” he asked quickly, helping Nina to her feet. She shook the bits of metal from her _kefta_.

“This is bulletproof,” Nina replied easily. “Genya?” She helped her mentor up more slowly. Genya’s hands trembled, and she held onto Nina’s arm tightly.

“We need to leave,” she murmured, seeming far off. Nina wondered what she was seeing.

 

For the second time today Nina found herself in the War Room. “He threw a grenade at you?!” Zoya repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. Genya nursed a glass of _kvas_ the size of her head, wrapped securely in Zoya’s _kefta_ over her own. Zoya herself hovered protectively behind Genya’s chair.

“And then Malutin shot him,” Nina said.

Nikolai reentered, his face grim. “They found Yulian,” he said heavily. Nina felt her stomach drop. “They pulled him from the river,” he continued. “I’m sorry, Nina.”

“Someone should tell Kirill,” Nina said softly. “And Artemiy.”

“I’ll tell them.” Zoya swept around the room with the ease of a sea breeze, tilting Nikolai’s head to kiss him lightly with the same delicate carelessness one handled a flower. Silence set over them as she left.

“Travel to the Lower City is suspended,” Nikolai said, shaking himself out of his Zoya-induced trance. “Until we know why this has happened, the Grisha must remain in the Upper City. I’ll double escorts for vital personnel. If more goes wrong, we’ll recall the Okhrana from Poliznaya to keep the peace.” There was something ominous about how he said _keep the peace_ , like it meant something Nina didn’t know. He drummed his fingers on the table, his expression shadowed. “We’ll send plainclothes to investigate the rioting,” he continued. “And increase the penalty of crimes against Grisha to death.” He waved his hand at his steward in the corner. “Send the orders to every precinct in Os Alta.”

“Yes, _moi Tsar_.” The steward slipped away through a servant’s entrance.

“You two can go,” Nikolai dismissed. “I need a drink.”

 

Nina found Kirill in the Great Gardens, sitting in the shadow of the statue of Tsar Alexander that had almost killed him five years earlier. He held his head in one hand, a cigarette in the other, although he seemed to just be watching it burn down. Nina sat down next to him, unsure what to say.

“He didn’t like my smoking,” Kirill said after a moment. “He said it made me smell bad.”

Nina didn’t trust herself to say anything. Kirill went on. “I should have gone with them. Anastasiya hurt her arm yesterday morning and was having trouble summoning. They needed more protection.”

“Did Zoya know this?” Nina asked. Kirill’s cigarette burned out and fell from his hand onto the cobble.

“I doubt it.” Kirill crossed his arms. “I should have gone with them.” His voice cracked. “I could have protected them.”

“Assigning blame isn’t going to bring them back, Kirill,” Nina said firmly. “We need to find out who did this. Will you help us?”

“Let me bury Yulian,” Kirill said. He snapped his cigarette in half. “Then I will destroy whoever has done this.”

  


## ANTON

 

The longer Anton remained within the Two Palaces, the larger they felt. He woke with the sickly-sweet smell of the nobility in his nose, mixing with the scent of fresh tea that entered with the servant carrying his breakfast tray. Beyond an apologetic letter from Artemiy telling him that he was busy all day, Anton was left to his devices. How better to occupy himself than by exploring the palaces on his own?

The tension in the palace unsettled him. It seemed simultaneously too full and too empty. Guards moved quickly through the corridors, armed and ready for a battle, escorting groups of brightly-decorated Grisha and nobles. Servants whispered among themselves, darting in and out of servant’s halls. What he was thankful for was the fact that no one seemed to pay him much notice.

He walked aimlessly until he found himself in the library, a circular chamber with a glass ceiling and concentric circles of shelves at least twice his height, surrounding an indoor fountain and small tables for reading. A handful of older Grisha students occupied some of the tables, studying quietly.

“Do you need something?” Anton nearly leapt out of his skin as a short, young woman materialized at his elbow, wearing ivory and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles on her nose.

“I, uh,” Anton ran a hand through his hair, “I would like to read about...the Grisha. Yes.”

The librarian eyed him. “You’re the Fjerdan boy the Tsesarevich brought, aren’t you?”

Anton blushed. “Unless he makes a habit of being broken out of the Ice Court.”

The librarian smiled. “You said you were looking for books on Grisha?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “Something that isn’t propaganda or fanaticism. I want to understand how they can do what they can.”

She grinned wider and swept her hair over her shoulder, revealing a gold name plate that read _Nymphadora Larionovna._ “Follow me.”

She lead him in a circle around the library, then back a row. The shelves got taller the farther away from the center they got. Nymphadora reached her hand towards the top of the shelf, far above her head, and scrunched up her eyebrows for a moment. A thick, leather-bound book floated slowly out of the very top shelf and into her hand. “You’re Materialnik?” Anton asked.

Nymphadora grinned. “Solid materials. Steel, glass...also leather and paper.” She held the book out. “This is _The Small Science, Standard Edition_. It’s the first thing Grisha students read when learning Grisha theory.”

The book was as wide as his chest, and he had to hold it with both hands to keep his wrists from rioting. “Light reading, eh?”

Nymphadora shrugged. “Learn or die. It’s the Grisha way.”

 

Her words remained in the back of his head even as he retreated to a table to dig into his tome. It occurred to him suddenly that his confusion with the Ravkans was not just that they were widely different in culture. _They’re such fatalists,_ he thought. _They’re prepared to die at any minute._ Looking around he noticed every person of age was armed; the holsters hung from their belts, in view.

“Sir Helvar,” a young servant boy tapped him on the shoulder. “Her Majesty and the Tsesarevich request your presence immediately.”

Anton blinked. He stood and made to grab his book, but the boy took it before he could. “I’ll take this back to your quarters, Sir Helvar,” he said quickly. “You should go at once to the Tsesarevich’s rooms. There is a guard outside who will escort you.”

“Very well, then,” Anton stammered, and left the boy struggling with the massive book. As he’d said, there was a member of the Royal Guard waiting just outside the double doors of the Library. The guard didn’t say anything, simply leading him through the marble labyrinth of the Palace, up a set of stairs Anton recognized from when he and Artemiy went exploring the day before. The guard stopped at the last turn. Another pair of guards protected the hall to Artemiy’s rooms. They stood aside to let him pass.

The left of the doors to Artemiy’s rooms was slightly ajar. Anton went to open the door, but the voices stopped him. “I know you and Yulian were close,” Zoya was saying. “There’s nothing we can do but try to find his killer.”

“And what will you do once you’ve found them?” Artemiy snapped. “Death isn’t good enough.”

“You only say that because you have never taken a life,” Zoya replied with as much force. “The price for killing an officer is execution by firing squad. You know this.”

“We should throw them to the corporalki,” Artemiy said. “Rip them from limb to limb like they did to Stasiya.”

“We cannot respond to barbarism with more barbarism, Artemiy,” Zoya told him. “We are the Crown. The very foundation of Ravkan morality rests on our shoulders.”

Anton knocked on the door. He heard a faint _clack,_ like Artemiy had just shut his mouth with excessive force. He peeked his head around the door. Artemiy was on his feet, apparently caught in the middle of pacing, while Zoya reclined in a chair, swirling a glass of some evil-looking, dark liquid. “You summoned me, my lord?”

Artemiy let out a harsh breath of air and turned away, undoing and redoing his braid. “It is customary to first greet the lady of the house.”

Anton took it as a queue to enter and knelt. “Your Majesty.”

“We’re wasting time with formality,” Zoya dismissed. “On your feet. We require your knowledge.”

Anton stood. “Yulian is dead,” Artemiy announced, turning back towards him.

“Djel,” Anton breathed. “What happened?”

“We don’t know.” Zoya motioned to the other couch. “Sit. This will likely take a while.” When Anton was seated, she continued. “Ivanov and another Grisha, Anastasiya Volgorov, disappeared last night and were found dead this morning. Volgorov in three installments.”

“They pulled Yulian out of the river,” Artemiy finished, resting his hands on the back of the couch Anton was sitting on. “And while Nina and Genya were investigating where they found Volgorov’s body, someone threw a grenade at them.”

Anton wrapped his arms around himself. “You want to know if Fjerda had something to do with this.”

Zoya gazed at him expectantly. “Those who work in intelligence,” Anton said, “have a saying. ‘No one hates Ravka more than the Ravkans.’ The best way to destabilize a country is from the inside out.”

“Is that the same tactic they employed in Shu Han?” Artemiy pressed.

“Probably.” Anton shrugged. “It was easier with the Shu. They’d been on the verge of war for years.”

“This strategy will not work in Ravka,” Zoya said decidedly. She stood, shaking out the invisible wrinkles in her _kefta_. “I will send a servant for you, Tyoma.”

“Yes, _madraya_ ,” Artemiy answered obediently, crossing around the couch to kiss Zoya’s hand. She rested her hand briefly against Artemiy’s face, and swept out of the room. Artemiy’s shoulders slumped. He put his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Artemiy,” Anton said. “I know how it feels.”

“Do you?” Artemiy scoffed. “From the moment a Grisha is born they have a giant target on their back. Everywhere they go they are in danger. The Little Palace is the only place where they can thrive, and the minute they leave, they’re chopped into pieces and thrown in the river. What sort of life is that?”

“Everyone dies, Artemiy,” Anton said angrily. “You think I haven’t lost friends? That _ostkazat’syas_ live a life of peace and prosperity?” He stood up and stepped towards Artemiy. “You’re not going to fix the world by raging. Drink something and get it together before your mother calls you.” He turned and made for the door.

“Anton,” Artemiy said weakly. Anton stopped at the door with a sigh. “Please don’t leave.”

Anton rested his head on the door. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

Anton turned back to him. “Would it kill you to have the same personality for more than a minute at a time?”

Artemiy let out a surprised laugh. “Possibly.” He tried to laugh again, but his posture slumped and it came out more like a sob.

“I…” Anton stared at him. “Come here, you absolute idiot,” he said after a moment. Artemiy crossed the room and crumpled against Anton’s chest. Anton wrapped his arms around him awkwardly.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Artemiy sobbed.

“That’s okay,” Anton told him. “You can learn.” Internally he wondered, _has anyone taught this poor boy any emotional regulation skills whatsoever?_

Artemiy sniffed and pulled away. “Now I feel like an idiot,” he sighed. “Damnit.”

“An idiot would claim he knew exactly what to do when he didn’t,” Anton replied. "Go wash your face."

 

Artemiy retreated into his rooms for a nap, so Anton killed time reading more Grisha theory until he was summoned to the War Room. An ancient-looking map of Ravka hung on the far wall, a meaningful backdrop to the first sight he saw when he entered; Nikolai standing tall, deep in thought as he gazed down at the papers littering the table. Zoya stood leaned against him, equally as absorbed in her thoughts. “Anton,” he greeted in his jarring, scratchy voice. “I’m sure you’re filled in on recent events.”

“I’ve given it thought, Your Majesty,” Anton began, “and I believe I know where this started.”

Nikolai raised his eyebrows. “Pray tell.”

Anton took a breath and told him.

—-

_“Where are they going?” Anton asked Jarl, watching the half-dozen infiltrators load onto the back of the truck. Snow lay heavy over Djerholm; cleaning crews had come through that morning and shoveled all the thick, white snow into dirtied piles twice Anton’s height. He and Brum were bundled in thick furs, but the soldiers working were in their typical uniform._ I bet they’ll feel real masculine when they get sick, _he thought, unimpressed._

_“Off to Ravka,” Brum said. “As they say.”_

_“No one hates Ravka as much as the Ravkans,” Anton repeated obediently. “What are they going to do there?”_

_Jarl nodded at a uniformed soldier that passed them. “Ravka is not like other countries,” he said. “The_ drusje _there are integrated. They have been forced on the people. You can only imagine the resentment this forms.”_

_“Last time we tried this, Shu Han collapsed into war,” Anton pointed out._

_Brum smiled. “Precisely.”_

—-

Nikolai was silent for a long, frightening moment. He brought his fist down on the central table with a fury he’d never seen before. The table gave a shocking _crack_ as his fist connected to it. Zoya jumped, untangling herself from him quickly. It shocked Nikolai out of his rage. “Sorry, sorry,” he said immediately, reaching out towards her. She let him near with a dark look on her face.

The steward behind Anton cleared his throat pointedly. “Her Excellency Consul Genya Kostyk and Major Zenik are here, Your Majesties.”

“Send them in,” Zoya sighed affectedly. She ran a hand through Nikolai’s hair once, professionally. Nikolai leaned towards her, massaging his likely-bruised hand.

“Arrangements have been made for Sergeant Volgorov and Lieutenant Ivanov’s funerals,” Genya began. “They’ll be buried with full military honors.”

Nikolai nodded and recounted what Anton had told him. “Nina, you speak better Fjerdan than me,” he said. “You are to go to the embassy tonight and deliver the ambassador my ultimatum. Anton, I want you to accompany her.” He pulled a sealed letter from one of his innumerable pockets and gave it to Nina.

“Why?” Nina and Anton demanded in tandem.

“Protection.” Nikolai flexed his fingers through his gloves. “I wouldn’t trust the Fjerdans with a hound, much less with you.”

“...As you wish, Your Majesty,” Nina relented. Anton murmured his assent.

“You two are dismissed,” Nikolai continued. “We have Triumvirate business to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have said goodbye to a dear friend. He won't be the last.  
> There is a little bit of filler in here, just because I thought Artemiy and Anton could use some development. The next update will be on Monday, since I'm almost done with the last chapter. Yay!


	10. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina delivers an ultimatum. The Triumvirate investigates a possible lead.

#  **VIII: NINA**

Nina wasn’t happy that Nikolai thought she needed a chaperone. Much less one who was a eighteen year-old boy.

Anton wisely seemed aware that this was grating to her. They stopped briefly at the workshops, where David gifted Anton with an impressive pair of revolvers and a belt of flash bombs. He kept to himself as she led them to where her auto was waiting. She felt a pang of sadness as she saw the person waiting for her was Kirill, not Yulian. Kirill’s eyes were dark. He touched his fingers lightly to the crow pin on his jacket lapel as he opened the door to let them in.

They drove in silence. Anton loaded his guns with red-rimmed bullets and shoved them into his holsters. Kirill stared moodily out the window, stretching his hands in preparation for a fight. Nina got a good look at the letter Nikolai had pressed into her hand. It was sealed with sky blue wax painted over with gold leaf. The Ravkan double-eagle looked at her expectantly. The other side of the letter said in Nikolai’s loopy script, _AMB. FJERDA Hallur STENMARK._ “I knew Stenmark’s son,” Anton said suddenly. “He died at Faehaven.”

“We all know a dead man at Faehaven,” Kirill said choppily.

“I probably know less,” Anton replied. Kirill dropped his head.

 

The Fjerdan Embassy was a grey, uninviting fortress amid the brightly-colored residences of the Upper City. A pair of wrought-iron gate doors opened into a courtyard centered around a looming statue of a leaping, snarling wolf, inhabited only by guarding _drüskelles_. Anton held his head high as the guards stared at him in recognition. Kirill bared his teeth at them when they got near. It was an immature move, but they actually hesitated.

“He doesn’t bite,” Anton said in dismissive Fjerdan. “But he does do other things,” he added as the guards tried to step closer. They paused another moment before pointing their guns at Anton instead.

“Enough,” Nina interrupted sharply. “We’re here on the orders of the King. Take us to Ambassador Stenmark immediately.”

The guards muttered unhappily as they escorted Nina and her companions through the Embassy to Stenmark’s office. Stenmark raised his head slowly, dragging his eyes lazily over the Ravkan dignitaries. He was a strange, bird-like man, with large, pale eyes and a thin hooked nose. His mouth made the shape of a small, upside-down _V_. His head seemed too small for his broad, barrel chest. His grey Fjerdan-style jacket seemed a tight around the stomach.

“I see Ravka has done you well, Ambassador,” Anton said crisply, eyeing Stenmark’s belly critically. “It’s troubling Ravka cannot say the same about you.”

“I see you go where the _argrs_ go, Brumsson,” Stenmark replied icily. He turned to Nina. “How audacious of you to bring this traitor into my embassy.”

“Ambassador Stenmark,” Nina pronounced, “you and your delegation are no longer welcome in Ravka. You will empty this embassy by the end of this week or face arrest by the government of Ravka.” She extended the letter to Stenmark, who snatched it from her hand as if he was afraid of touching her. “This order comes from the King as a direct consequence of the gross and inhumane treatment of Prince Artemiy Vasily when he was illegally captured by Fjerdan forces.”

Stenmark’s hand flew under the desk. In a moment Anton’s revolver was aimed at his forehead. “Don’t you dare grab that gun,” he said softly. The guards reached for their weapons. Kirill sent a blast of air around the room, flattening their rifles to their sides. Stenmark slowly pulled his hand out from under the table and held them up.

“Ravka will pay for this,” he said to Nina.

“We keep a tidy checkbook,” Nina replied. “I’m sure it won’t be an issue.” She waved for Anton to put away his gun. “We’re done here.”

 

“That was stupid,” she said to Anton in Ravkan as they climbed back into the car. “We were wildly outnumbered.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Anton replied breezily as he slid his revolver back into its holster. “They wouldn’t dare shoot us in Os Alta. I was the only one who could possibly have died.”

“Forget that,” Kirill dismissed. “How on Earth did you know he had a gun?”

Anton shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

Nina and Kirill exchanged reserved looks. He caught them and scowled. “Most Fjerdan nobles are armed, even if they don’t really know what do with a gun,” Anton explained. “Ambassador Stenmark, as a former drüskelle, surely knows how to operate a pistol. It’s reasonable he would have had a gun. In case of emergencies.” He shrugged again. “Or unwelcome guests.”

 

Artemiy stood waiting just past the gates onto palace grounds, looking like a ghostly beanpole in the dying light. “Goodnight, sweet prince,” Kirill said as he climbed out.

“Sleep well, beast,” Artemiy replied. He reached out and grabbed Kirill’s hand, squeezing it briefly. They exchanged charged looks. Artemiy’s eyes followed him even as Kirill slipped past and jogged towards the Little Palace.

“Here to escort us, Your Highness?” Nina asked sarcastically. Artemiy frowned.

“Yes, actually,” he said. “Father is in one of his...moods. I thought I should at least appear to shield you from his wrath.”

“How chivalrous,” Anton said icily. Out of the corner of her eye, Nina took in Anton’s uncalled-for scowl. She pressed her lips together to suppress a grin as she realized why he was upset.

Artemiy blinked, apparently unaware of Anton’s jealousy. “Let’s not keep him waiting,” he said, beckoning them towards the palace. Anton remained grounded in place.

“Move along,” Nina murmured in his ear, pushing him along with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“He and Kirill,” Anton mumbled.

“Postpone your crisis until after we’re done with Nikolai.".

 

Nikolai being in one of his “moods” could really mean anything from “he was unhappy with the progress of his current project” to “he'd transformed into a winged demon and had to be chained to the bed.” Nina reviewed her options as Artemiy lead them to Nikolai’s private office. Thankfully, Nikolai seemed to have retained his human form. He hunched over papers spread all over his desk, drumming his pencil absently. His mouth was set in a thin line; it turned down as he looked up and saw her.

“Tell me it went well,” he said tiredly.

“Could have been worse.” Nina shrugged. “I think they got the message, and if they didn’t….”

A knock on the door stopped them. “Your Majesty,” Nikolai’s steward said as he peeked around the door. “There’s been another incident. A healer dead in Yeletov.”

“There’s plague in Yeletov,” Artemiy exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “What’s the point of killing a healer?”

Nikolai’s pencil splintered and snapped in his hand. The two pieces fell onto his desk and rolled onto the floor. “Wake my wife,” he said. “We’re making a trip to Yeletov.”

“Are you sure that’s safe, Your Majesty?” Nina pressed. “Queenspox is dangerous, and the vaccine is only experimental….”

Nikolai waved his hand. “I’ve already had Queenspox. I won’t get it again.”

Artemiy  _tsked_ . “What about _madraya_?”

“Grisha don’t get sick,” Nina dismissed.

Artemiy’s mouth turned downwards at the corners. “Please allow me to come with you, Father. I would feel better with your safety in my hands.”

“Of course, Tyoma,” Nikolai said as the door clicked open, signalling another entrance.

Zoya stood in the doorway, her eyes shadowed. “You’d better be right about this, Nikolai,” she said. “Or we’re looking Death in the eye.”

* * *

 

## ANTON

 

Yeletov could barely be called a town.

It was more like a large village; only the main street was cobbled, and the length of it was crowded with rickety wooden buildings. The streets were crowded with vendors in traditional Ravkan clothing, selling their wares, but between the farmers and poor merchants milled brightly-clad soldiers in freshly-pressed uniforms, their faces and hands covered. It was like he’d stepped into the past century, especially comparing it to Os Alta. “No wonder there’s a Queenspox outbreak here,” he said to Artemiy as their carriage rolled to a stop. “This is the frontier of civilization.” Anton spotted a single red _kefta_ disappearing into the crowd. The mood here was uneasy. For the number of people in the street, it was far too quiet.

“You say that because you’ve never been to Novyi Zem,” Artemiy replied, kicking the door open and sliding out. He smoothed the wrinkles from his vivid blue kefta and adjusted his gloves. “Come.”

Anton climbed down a bit more carefully. Two more black carriages rolled to a stop beside theirs. The door swung open, narrowly missing Artemiy’s head. Nina swept her red cape out before stepping down. Instead of a _kefta_ she wore a fitted red tunic with the same embroidery he’d seen on corporalki wear _,_ and cream trousers. Before greeting them she turned to help Genya out of the carriage. “I’m not so aged,” Genya complained while gratefully taking Nina’s hand.

“I have lost track of how many times I’ve watched you exit a carriage head-first,” Nina replied. “Or a car, for that matter.”

“That reminds me,” Anton interrupted. “Why didn’t we take a car?”

“They’re afraid of them,” Genya told him, motioning airily towards the residents of Yeletov. A small crowd was starting to form, but at Genya’s hand wave they retreated warily, hands reaching for their amulets. Genya turned to look at them. Her mouth set in a thin line. “They’re afraid of a lot of things.”

Anton crossed his arms, unsure what to do with them. “Why are they allowed to hold market if there’s plague?”

“They aren’t usually,” Nina told him. “We’ve cut them loose to make this a little easier.” She cracked her knuckles. “Just say the word, _moi soverenyi_.”

Genya hummed. Reaching into a hidden pocket of her _kefta_ she produced a small glass vial filled with some dark reddish liquid.

“Is that…?” Anton tried. Nina ignored him. She took the vial from Genya and opened it, waving her hand over it. The blood in the vial—for it was certainly blood—twitched and slowly rose from the vial, floating delicately in the air.

“This is what I’m looking for?” she asked. Genya nodded, and Nina flicked her wrist, sending the blood neatly back into the bottle. She undid the brooch of her cape, which Genya took absently. “Let’s go,” she said to Anton and Artemiy, and started into the crowd.

 

“Is this safe?” Anton asked Artemiy for about the tenth time. They followed Nina a few metres behind, giving her room to work. She weaved gracefully between people, although much larger than the peasants.

Most of Artemiy’s face was covered by the _ushanka_ he wore, but his look of exasperation was clear. Genya had tailored his eyes to a dark brown, but Anton still felt his heart skip a beat when they landed on him. With his face hidden between his collar, scarf, and hat, his eyes seemed more slanted than Anton had previously noticed. He could have been Shu. “You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Alright,” Anton sighed. He watched Artemiy for another moment. “Did Genya tailor your eye shape?”

“Just my eye and hair color,” Artemiy said. “Why?”

“Your eyes are narrower than I remembered,” Anton said.

Artemiy’s eyes crinkled, the only indication of a smile. “I’ve gotten that before.” He chuckled. “One of the _boyars_ once accused my mother of a tryst with my father’s guard, Tolya.” His smile dropped. “My mother says I have my grandfather’s eyes.”

“The old tsar?” Anton asked.

“My mother’s father,” Artemiy corrected.

“What happened to him?”

Artemiy buried his face deeper into his scarf. “Who knows? They never found his body.”

Anton felt cold. He pushed closer to Artemiy, who looped his arm with Anton’s. “Soon I will tell you everything,” Artemiy promised. “Just not right now.”

Nina raised an arm. Artemiy disentangled himself instantly as Nina reached out and snagged the shirt of a young man bent over a table of wares. The young man yelped as Nina grabbed his arms and pushed him against the wall. He wore a clean-pressed shirt and an expensive-looking wool coat, and Anton felt a prick of recognition as he turned to glare at him. Artemiy lifted a frail old woman and delicately set her out of his path. “Forgive me, _babya_ ,” he said in passing. Anton followed him. Nina’s hostage threw his head back, braining Nina in the nose. She choked and staggered, shocked by the sudden impact, and the hostage disentangled himself from Nina and tried to run. Artemiy stuck his arm out, hand outstretched. The young man shuddered and collapsed just a few feet away.

Their unwilling audience didn’t react well. A terrified scream went up and the street began to clear as the peasants of Yeletov ran for home. Artemiy didn’t react, simply cuffing his suspect. Nina leaned against the wall, holding a bloodied hand to her nose. “Let me see,” Anton tried, stepping closer to her. Nina pulled her hand back. Anton winced. “That’s broken,” he said. “We should get you back to Genya.”

“Take him.” Artemiy shoved their prisoner towards him. Anton held him at arms length. He was pale skinned, his eyes a strange, yellowish color, but there was bright red high in his cheeks. “What are you, Fjerdan?” he spat. “Siding with witches?”

“Murder is bad,” Anton told him sagely. “Especially killing a Healer.”

“A witch.”

“A girl,”  Nina said, wiping the blood from her face. The mottled purple bruise consuming her face had suddenly faded; her nose was set and apparently healed. Artemiy batted her hand away and gently felt from cheek-to-cheek.

“You should be fine,” Artemiy said decidedly.

“Bloodletter,” the prisoner hissed. Anton punched him in the gut.

“Shut your mouth unless you want a bullet in place of my fist,” Anton snarled. Internally he seethed at Artemiy. Why hadn’t he at least warned him?

“Relax,” Artemiy said. He gave their hostage a critical look. “Identify yourself. You are under arrest by the Ravkan crown on charges of assault and murder of an imperial soldier. It is _not_ in your best interest to lie.”

The youth set his jaw. “Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov.”

“Son of a bitch,” Artemiy blurted furiously. “You boyars have a lot of nerve!”

“Anton, send up your flare,” Nina said. Anton pulled the little metal cylinder David had given him and pressed the button on the side, sending a little flaming pellet into the sky. It exploded overhead with a deep _boom_ , dispersing white smoke. Just a few moments later he heard another _boom_ in response.

“Who are the Nabokovs?” he asked Nina.

“Vladimir Fyodorovich Lantsov Nabokov is Duke of Udova,” Nina grumbled. “The province we’re in right now.”

“This runt is Artemiy’s cousin?” Anton asked, baffled.

“Who are you calling a runt?!” Vladimir exclaimed furiously, wriggling around like a fish out of water.

Artemiy reached out again and Vladimir stilled quickly. He gave Artemiy a murderous look, but Artemiy just raised his eyebrows. “You’ll pay, bloodletter,” Vladimir hissed.

“I’m sure I will.” Artemiy buried his hands in his pockets. “Where _are_ they?” he directed at Nina, who shrugged apathetically.

Anton heard the clatter of horseshoes on cobble and turned to see Zoya ease her black stallion to a stop, her face hidden by a balaclava. A squadron of _grevsky_ followed her, their faces also obscured. Sliding smoothly off her horse, Zoya looked like a witch straight out of his nightmares, like she’d melted out of the shadowy pine forest and had come to eat his soul. But she slipped past him and grabbed Vladimir by the jaw, tilting his head to look her directly in the eyes. “Vladimir Vladimirovich,” she said softly. “I didn’t think your kind had the stomach for murder.”

“Who the hell are you?” Vladimir spat, and with her free hand Zoya yanked her balaclava down, exposing her perfect and untailored face. Vladimir went grey. For a long moment he stared blankly at her, as if in total shock of the turn of events. His eyes slowly slid past her to Artemiy, watching moodily, and a smile slowly spread across his features. “Check your coat, princeling,” he said victoriously.

Artemiy’s eyes widened as he looked down at himself, rapidly checking his sleeves. “Turn around,” Anton snapped, and Artemiy practically spinned on his heel. They almost went toppling over as Anton lunged for the little metal container sticking out of Artemiy’s hood. He tugged on it and only succeeded in having Artemiy crash into him with a surprised and unhappy choking noise. “Djel save us all,” Anton muttered, grabbing Artemiy’s shoulder and pushing away as he gave the grenade a stronger tug. With a _rip_ the grenade came loose along with some of Artemiy’s sable-lined hood, and Anton chucked it into the empty plaza with enough time to shove Artemiy on the ground before it exploded. A wave of heat rolled over him, quickly followed by a smell almost like rotten egg. “Don’t breathe!” he ordered hastily. “It’s gas _parem._ Send it out of here.”

Zoya lazily swept her arm and sent a gust of wind that almost knocked him into the wall. Her hand had dropped to wrap itself around Vladimir’s neck. His face was turning red. Artemiy rolled over, flabbergasted. “You tried to kill me,” he said, staring at Vladimir. Zoya’s hand came back around, stopping inches from Vladimir’s chest. He made a horrible choking noise and Zoya let go of him, lifting her other hand higher. Vladimir rose with it, still gagging. “Mother—” Artemiy tried.

“Be quiet, Nikolovich.” Zoya sent Vladimir sailing into the wall. He barely managed a panicked inhale as he sank to the ground before she had lifted him again.

Nina’s eyes were dark as she helped Artemiy to his feet. “Don't get in the way of that,” she murmured in Anton’s ear.

Anton ignored her and stepped forward, putting a hand on Zoya’s shoulder. She stiffened. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“It’s a good thing I’m not you,” she replied, her voice like ice. Vladimir rose a little higher. His horrible hacking had turned more into screams.

“If what we believe is true,” Anton continued, “if Fjerda is behind these terrorists—this will be a joke to them. They will destroy you and your legacy. Nikolai will be off the throne and on the gallows in weeks.”

“You underestimate my country.”

“But you shouldn’t underestimate mine.” Anton leaned in closer. “Nina told me this boy is nobleborn. You need the nobles on your side. A ruler that relies on the military to stay in power is a ruler asking to be assassinated.”

Vladimir dropped to the ground, sobbing. Zoya lowered her arms, shrugging her shoulders to get Anton away. “You are welcome to make a habit of making good points,” she said after a long moment. “Next time, wait for me to ask.”

Anton lowered his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And That's The Tea Sis.  
> The Nabokov's are not a canon family in the Grishaverse, but pathetic Lantsov cousins are, so I put a face on a couple. You'll remember from Siege & Storm that Grand Duke of Udova was Nikolai's pre-heir title.  
> Also, if there are any strange spacing errors in this chapter or previous ones, it's due to AO3's wacky italics coding. I try to look through them to fix it before posting, but since such errors are not in the original document, I might miss some. If you see one please let me know so I can fix it!


	11. FINAL INTERMISSION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into the events of the Siege of Faehaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Major TW for miscarriage and graphic violence in this chapter.**  
>  Also, this chapter is incredibly sad, so prepare yourself.

#  **INTERMISSION III**

 

The wind carries the reek of burning flesh.

Nikolai sits with his back against one of the many looming ash trees of the Wandering Isle. Far below him, down the steep hill he’d almost thrown his back out climbing, the walled town of Faehaven burned. The sky is overcast, almost as dark as his mood, and the light has washed out the vivid shades of the Second Army’s _keftas_.

“Your Majesty,” Nina speaks from behind him, and he turns to look at her. Her arm is still in a sling, and he can just see bandages peeking out past her red collar. “Our horses are ready.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Nikolai says, the words as natural as his own name by this point. He goes to stand angrily and almost topples over as a feeling like a hot knife in his gut hits him. He breathes out slowly from between his teeth, seething. “I need...to be with her,” he manages as he straightens out, slowly, feeling the tug of his too-stiff skin and the ache that’s now going to linger.

Nina raises an inexplicably-perfect eyebrow at him. He wonders how she and Genya manage to always look in perfect condition when they’re out catching their deaths in a trench in the middle of Kaelish winter. “In this condition? Due respect, Your Majesty, but your presence on the field would only put the General in more danger. With you safe she can focus on defeating the Fjerdans.” She holds out her hand. “Come on.”

He takes her hand and lets her help him to his horse, all the while muttering, “I’m not an invalid.”

“Genya’s best healers are waiting for us in Nedoran,” she says. “They should be able to finish putting your small intestine back together.”

“I hope so,” Nikolai grunts, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. The hood is lined with silver fox fur and it still smells like Zoya. He prays she’s alright. “It’s hell down there,” he says as they set off, wrapping around the battlefield in a wide arch. He can hear the incessant rattle of machine gun fire, feel it shaking his damaged insides. The smell of fire hits them stronger as they start down the hill. He makes a face. “We’re downwind. That is disgusting.”

 

He’s started bleeding through his clothes by the time they get to Nedoran, and he barely manages to dismount before he collapses and vomits everything Zoya had attempted to shove in him. His head is pounding, and he barely registers a group of medics lifting him onto a stretcher and carrying him away to be treated. When next he’s aware of himself, he’s lying in bed in his tent. Genya is sitting next to his cot, head in her hands. “Don’t you dare say it,” he whispers hoarsely. Genya looks up, and her face is so much more unreadable than he’s okay with.

“Last I heard, Zoya’s giving the Fjerdans a run for their money,” Genya says flatly. “I have spent the last three hours praying the sepsis in your abdomen wouldn’t kill you. You absolute _idiot_.”

“I’m still your king, you know,” Nikolai mutters, blushing. “And I couldn’t—just _leave_ her.”

“Zoya is not fragile, Your Majesty,” Genya snaps. “She can take care of herself.”

“You don’t know what might happen,” Nikolai shoots back, struggling to not disturb his injuries. “Artemiy needs his mother.”

“Artemiy is fourteen years old now,” Genya says. “Ravka needs its king, Nikolai. That is more important.”

“How could you say that?!”

“Because it’s the truth.” Genya stands. “And it’s what Zoya knows. You’re going back to Ravka, Your Majesty, on orders of your wife. I would not recommend disobeying her.” She turns to leave but stops, staring at the opening in the tent. “What—”

“General Kostyk!” The messenger has mud past his knees, and Nikolai knows he’s come from the battlefield. “You must come immediately. General Lantsov has been shot.”

Nikolai’s insides freeze and shatter. Genya stabs a finger at him. “Don’t you _dare_ move,” she snarls. He waits until she’s gone to scream.

 

It’s several hours before Genya returns, and Nikolai’s only company until then are the silent, dull-eyed medics that tend to him and the fire keeping the tent warm. When she reenters, he sees she’s traded her brilliant red _kefta_ for a dark, heavy coat, her hood flipped up and obscuring her face. The nighttime chill threatens to claw its way in with her, but the tent closes before it has a chance. She shuffles tiredly to the chair beside his bed and sinks down, pulling her hood back. Her eyes are red from crying.

“Did you know?” she asks him, her accusatory tone only marginally mellowed by the exhaustion so clear on her face.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Nikolai replies. Genya pinches the bridge of her nose and scrunches up her face like she’s trying really hard not to start crying again.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” she says. He feels as if a hole has opened up in his gut and taken all his insides with it. It’s the only thing that can possibly explain why he feels so empty inside, why there's a gaping void that feels unfillable.

“Is she—” he struggles to suck a breath in. “Is she alive?”

Genya breathes out slowly, like she’s breathing for the both of them. “Barely.”

He swallows a sob. “I need to see her.”

“They’re still working on her,” Genya objects wearily. “And you’re in no state.”

Nikolai closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t have let her come here. I shouldn’t have left her side.”

“Like you could stop Zoya from charging straight into the jaws of death.”

“Damnit,” he mutters, feeling the tears coming back full force. “Why didn't she tell me?” He tries to force himself to stop crying. When was the last time he’d cried like this? He can't afford to be so pathetic.

“Probably because you wouldn’t have let her come to Faehaven with us,” Genya assumes. She laughs bitterly. “You know what she used to say to us when she was pregnant with Artemiy.”

“Something about not being made of glass,” Nikolai supplies. “She stopped when she threw her back out.”

“We got ourselves a fiesty one, didn’t we?”

“You should’ve just done with David,” he deadpans. He feels his spirits lift, if only a little. Genya wouldn’t joke if she wasn’t at least somewhat optimistic.

Genya sighs and stands, drawing the sign of the Saints on his forehead. “Go back to sleep,” she says. “I’ll wake you if anything changes. I promise.”

* * *

  


“I’m guessing you’re here to call me an idiot,” was the first thing Zoya said to him when he was finally well enough to see her. She, on the other hand, had never looked worse. The color was completely gone from her face, and even her eyes seem more grey. The only color on her face was the rotten purple of the bags under her eyes.

“Saints,” Nikolai sighed. “I am so helplessly overjoyed to hear your voice.”

Zoya gave him a scowl that told him she’d be blushing if only she had enough blood to spare. He sat down on the chair next to her bed and took her hand in both of his, and leaned over to press a kiss on her brow. She scowled deeper. “I missed you,” she said gruffly. It brought a laugh out of Nikolai, the first in a month. “Genya has been smothering me.”

“I’m outraged that you would expect me to do anything but continue Genya’s strict routine for you,” Nikolai deadpanned, but the heartfelt groan Zoya gave in response broke his façade. “ _Liybimaya_ ,” he sighed cheesily.

“ _Solntse_ ,” she replied with an easy grin, sticking her tongue out at him. Her smile melted slowly as she gazed up at him. “We...we need to talk.”

Nikolai sighed. “Genya told me.” She didn’t respond, instead looking away. He rested his head on the bed and waited for her to speak.

A muffled sob caught his attention. “Damnit,” Zoya muttered. “I didn’t—shit.”

Nikolai took her hand and pressed a kiss onto her knuckles. “Zecha,” he said simply, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing, you moronic excuse for a husband?” Zoya sniffed. “Miraculously you were the intelligent one in this particular incident. I went and got shot. I—I got my baby killed.”

“Do you remember what you told me when Privyet died?” Nikolai asked her. At her baffled expression he continued. “You told me that I had no control over who lives and who dies. You prefaced it with “you imbecile,” but it worked. You said I couldn’t even hope to bring back the dead, and guilt wouldn’t help my case.” He gazed at her steadily. “Would you rather have died?”

“Yes!” she replied so quickly he wondered if she’d thought about it. Then she backpedaled. “I—I—“

“May I remind you that there is a little boy waiting for you in Os Alta?” Nikolai snapped. “A class of two hundred students patiently awaiting the return of their teacher? Your country needs you, General. Your King needs you.” He took a breath. “You fucked up and you know you did. I’m sure you prepared a million excuses as to why you never told me you were pregnant, but I don’t want to hear them. I can’t hope to understand how that felt. But I will not let you decide that you should die. Your life has not belonged to you since the day you swore allegiance to Alina. Your life belongs to Ravka, and you will not lose it in this pathetic excuse for a country.”

Zoya stared at him, eyebrows raised. “A confession of love, a forgiveness, and a rousingly patriotic speech all in one,” she said after a moment. “How impressive, little pirate king.”

“I would have begun it by slapping you, but you’re in no state.”

She grabbed his hand. “Thank you, Kolya.”

Nikolai scowled. “And don’t call me an moronic excuse for a husband. Moronic excuse for a king is fine and accurate, but I happen to have it on good authority that I am an excellent and loyal husband and I will not tolerate this slander.”

“You are an excellent husband,” Zoya agreed. “You’d be even more excellent if you got me some food. Go now before I get grumpy.”

“How does it feel knowing you’re the only person that can boss the King of Ravka around like this?” Nikolai asked her, rising slowly and wincing at the stiffness of his wounds. It would be at least another week of Nikolai as ambulatory as a rickety old man at this rate, especially with this saints-forsaken rain.

“It feels great, thank you for asking.” She grinned at him. “And get me a pen and paper too. I have to write to Artemiy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Faehaven, while a military success, was a serious blow to the Ravkan crown politically. The Fjerdans slaughtered almost everyone inside when they realized they were going to lose the city, meaning the Grisha that could potentially refill the ranks of the Second Army were dead by the time they made it inside. Both Fjerda and Ravka's governments were condemned by their neighbors for invading the Wandering Isle.


	12. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemiy and Anton reach a boiling point, and an old mentor of Artemiy's makes an appearance. Anton extracts valuable information.

#  **IX: ARTEMIY**

 

Artemiy was still seething from the revelation of the Nabokovs’ treason when he climbed back into his carriage, but Anton gave him no time to mope. “Are there any other secret powers you’re hiding that you plan on revealing at the most inopportune time?” he snarled the minute Artemiy closed the door, eyes full of rage.

“I’m also an amplifier,” Artemiy deadpanned. In response, Anton slapped him square across the face. Artemiy sputtered in surprise, tasting iron and wincing at where his teeth had dug into his cheek. He stared at Anton’s muddy boots, trying to both swallow his pride and formulate a response that wouldn’t get him slapped again. As the carriage started rolling the only sounds were the carriage bumping along and Anton’s heavy, furious breathing.

“I threw away _everything_ for you, Nikolovich,” Anton said slowly. “And you will not _live_ to make me regret it.”

“I don’t think I could live under the suffocating presence of your disappointment,” Artemiy replied. “I’m sorry, Anton. I should have told you.”

“No more secrets,” Anton demanded. “I need to trust you.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” Artemiy promised, finally looking Anton in the eye. To his horror he saw the other boy was on the verge of tears.

Anton sighed heavily, his head drooping. His hands were balled up into fists on his knees, holding the fabric of his trousers tightly. “Okay.” He seemed to pull himself together and looked back up. “First question. Why does your father always sound like he’s about to lose his voice?”

“The Darkling turned my father into a man-eating monster and it damaged his throat,” Artemiy said frankly.

“Very funny,” Anton said, scowling at him.

Artemiy raised his eyebrows, and Anton’s face went studiously blank as he realized Artemiy had been dead serious. “That’s a state secret, so don’t you dare tell a soul,” Artemiy continued. “Not even Kirill.”

“I doubt Kirill would even believe me if I told him that,” Anton said, still baffled. “My next question is: where are your grandparents? In Fjerda the Queen Mother remains even when the King has married, but none of your parents’ parents are here—or any relatives, for that matter. Have they all really died?”

Artemiy leaned back, crossing his arms. “My father’s elder brother Vasily was killed during the war, and my father exiled the former tsar and his mother to Novyi Zem.”

“Why?”

“My grandfather apparently was fond of sleeping with the younger servants.” Anton stared at him wide-eyed as Artemiy continued. “When my mother left the Darkling’s ranks, he ordered his men to hunt her family down and kill them as her punishment. So, for the most part, the answer is yes, they have all died.”

“Holy shit.” Anton said. “That’s intense.”

Artemiy shrugged. “My parents inherited something that could barely call itself a country and turned it into what it is today. It doesn’t matter what happened to their families.”

Anton’s brows furrowed. He studied Artemiy for a long moment, long enough for Artemiy to blush despite himself. “What do you want, Artemiy?”

“I could use with a nap right about now,” he replied.

Anton rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, you brickhead.”

Artemiy chuckled at the weak insult. “I guess...I want to continue my parents’ work. I want Ravka to be the greatest country on Earth. At whatever cost.”

“Even if a lot of people die?” Anton pressed.

Artemiy frowned. “Is Ravka great if it leaves a trail of corpses?”

 

Guards pulled Nabokov from the jail cart, a sack over his head to hide his identity. Kirill and a Tidemaker he didn’t recognize were waiting to help take Nabokov to the dungeons. Artemiy’s father stood at the foot of the stairs. “Artemiy,” he greeted curtly when Artemiy approached him. “Who did it?”

“Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov,” he provided tiredly.

Nikolai scowled. “I refuse to be surprised.”

“My lord?” Artemiy jumped as he turned to find Anton gazing at him calmly. “I was trained in interrogation by the Fjerdan military. If I can be of any use….”

Nikolai idly cracked his knuckles. “I’m not sure you’ll be necessary.”

Anton tilted his head, his eyes darkening in understanding. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”

“You might want to talk to _madraya_ , Father,” Artemiy said. “She almost killed Vladimirovich.”

“He stuck a _parem_ grenade to you,” Anton pointed out unhelpfully.

Nikolai’s eye twitched. “He did _what_?”

“Who it was on is the least of your worries,” Anton said, crossing his arms. “I know those grenades. They’re Fjerdan—part of every drüskelle’s kit.”

The King sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Too bad we deported Stenmark,” he sighed. “I would’ve loved to shoot him.”

Not for the first time, Artemiy wondered if his father was joking. “Do you need anything else from me, father?” he asked.

Nikolai hummed. “Not for now. But be ready if I call you.”

“Yes, father.” Artemiy bowed his head and started past him. “Come, Anton.”

“Uh—yes, my lord,” Anton stammered.

 

Artemiy’s sitting room was obnoxiously stuffy and hot when he pushed the doors open. “Tell them to close my room’s pipes,” he yelled in the general direction of the servant’s entrance, and opened the windows, letting the frigid Ravkan breeze in.

“Do all your family members treat servants like that?” Anton asked, sounding unhappy.

Artemiy rolled his eyes. “No. My parents are very courteous. I don’t see the need for it.”

“Why not?”

Artemiy turned on him, crossing his arms defensively. “It’s their _job_?”

“Just because being King is your father’s job doesn’t mean people don’t thank him, Artemiy!” Anton exclaimed. “Why is it different with your servants?”

Artemiy sputtered furiously. “I don’t take lessons in ethics from a Fjerdan,” he snapped at last.

Anton narrowed his eyes. “You’re a slave-driving witch.” He turned on his heel and swept out of the room, slamming the door and taking all the warmth of the room with him. Artemiy stared at the door, flabbergasted.

“Good job.” A shadow in the corner of Artemiy’s eye shifted. “I told you to be nice.”

He turned. A young, pale-skinned man, with trimmed black hair and quartz grey eyes, leaned lazily against the wall next to the window, dressed in all-black. “Aleksander,” Artemiy greeted hesitantly. “You...it’s been a while.”

“Hmm.” Aleksander’s form flickered, like candle in the breeze. The shadows of the room seemed to be pulled towards him, feeding the apparition. “We haven’t talked since you left for Tsibeya,” he recognized airily. “I thought now would be appropriate to offer my expertise.”

“Your expertise on what?” Artemiy snapped.

“You will not get anywhere without Anton Helvar on your side,” Aleksander said firmly. “Fix your act, or it will cost you.”

“Cost me what?” Artemiy dug his nails into his palms. “What can he give me that I don’t already have?”

Aleksander smiled thinly. “Rhetorical question.” He melted into the ground, dissipating into shadow. Artemiy growled. He shut the window, pausing to give the wall an angry kick. He’d have to apologize, much as he loathed to do it. Not listening to Aleksander always resulted in something going wrong.

 

Artemiy paced aimlessly around his room, trying to formulate a proper apology. “You’re not going to help me say sorry?” he asked tiredly into the empty room, knowing Aleksander was listening. “Typical. You’re only good for the theoretical.”

He doubted Aleksander would answer him, but his voice echoed around the room. “Don’t even bother to apologize if you don’t mean it. You’ve exhausted his tolerance for fake apologies.”

“He’s a stubborn principled brat,” Artemiy spat.

“So are you,” Aleksander pointed out. “Except you have _no_ principles.”

“Yes I do!”

“Name one.”

Artemiy gaped. “I—that all people are equal!”

“And yet you mistreat servants.”

“No I don’t! I’m not cruel!”

“It’s not about cruelty, Artemiy.” The shadows in the room swirled together to form Aleksander’s body again, standing in front of him. “It’s that you don’t realize that you are just like everyone else. The only difference between you and the servants is that you had the luck to be born into royalty.”

Artemiy looked down at his hands. “But...I’m Grisha. A-and not like typical Grisha, either. I’m special.”

“You’re unusual,” Aleksander corrected. “But you’re still not worth more than anyone else. Do you think your life matters more than Yulian’s did?”

Artemiy’s skin crawled. “No!”

Aleksander raised an eyebrow at him. “I think you have your answer.”

* * *

 

## ANTON

 

Anton shook with rage. The trio of servants he passed on his way back to his room pressed themselves so close to the wall it seemed they were trying to meld into it. He locked the door to his quarters and gave his bed a flying punch. “Idiot, cocky, brutish prince!” he muttered as he took his anger out on the pillows on his bed.

Internally, he wondered why this all of all things had set him off. Artemiy had much more insufferable traits: he was oblivious, unconsciously flirtatious, stubborn, _handsome…_

Anton face-planted into his covers, trying to suffocate himself.

“Anton!” He almost rolled off the bed as he heard Artemiy bang on the door. “I’m sorry! I’m a self-absorbed idiot and you were right about everything!”

_I’m dreaming_ , Anton decided. There was no way that could actually be Artemiy.

“Please open the door,” Artemiy whimpered sadly, sounding like a told-off puppy. “I want to say this to your face.”

Anton stood very slowly and stared at the door. After a long minute Artemiy spoke again. “Please, Anton. I want to do better.”

Anton reached out and opened the door. Artemiy gazed at him, slightly panicked. “I’ve been an idiot, Anton,” he stammered. “I’m too self-absorbed. I always think I’m better than everyone else, that I’m special. But I’m not. I’m just lucky.” His face turned red. “I’m lucky to have you to tell me when I’m being dense. I want to try again. I’ll listen this time. I promise.”

Anton stared at him, stricken. His heart was doing somersaults, pounding so fast he felt light-headed. He didn’t think. He couldn’t. He threw his arms around Artemiy’s neck and kissed him.

He felt Artemiy suck in a breath of surprise, but he didn’t pull away, instead wrapping his arms around Anton tightly. When they finally pulled away he rested his head on Anton’s shoulder, tightening his grip. He mumbled something unintelligible into his neck. Anton knew what it was.

  


“Are you sure about this?” Artemiy asked, gazing worriedly at Anton. It had been a three days since the Yeletov mission, and Nikolai was close to climbing the walls out of frustration. Nabokov had apparently been so shaken by Zoya’s attack that he was scarcely incoherent, babbling about witches and divine justice. With the Triumvirate at their wit’s end, Anton had volunteered to try to interrogate their prisoner with his Fjerdan tactics. They stood outside the steel-plated door into the interrogation room.

Anton adjusted the collar of his expensive Ravkan shirt. “I’m not afraid of some zealot.”

“But can you get anything of substance out of him?” Artemiy pressed. A lock of his hair had fallen out of his braid and hung over his face. He blew it absently out of the way. It fell back to where it had been.

Anton rolled his shoulders and stretched his hands. “Trust me.” He tucked the stray lock of hair behind Artemiy’s ear. “Terrorists love double agents.”

 

Nabokov was handcuffed to a table screwed to the ground. The only light was from a sole lightbulb suspended from the ceiling. Nabokov didn’t look up as Anton entered, pulled the interrogator’s chair out, and sat, studying him.

Nabokov tensed, still staring at his cuffed hands. “What do you want, Ice-eater?”

“I want to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you killed the Grisha.”

“I didn’t.” Nabokov wilted. “I haven’t killed anyone.”

Anton hummed. “You didn’t seem to believe such a thing when we first talked.”

Nabokov shuddered. He bounced his leg nervously. “I’m going to be honest with you, Vladimirovich,” Anton said frankly. “The Queen is standing outside waiting for me to come back with a confession and information on all your accomplices. If I don’t produce it, she’ll come in and get it out of you herself. Would you like to experience Her Majesty’s ire again?”

It was a bold-faced lie and Nabokov fell for it. “N-n-n-no,” he wheezed, eyes wide. “Please don’t.”

Anton crossed his arms. “Start talking.”

Nabokov whimpered. “I...where do I start?”

“When the Fjerdans contacted you.”

He finally looked up. “How did you—”

“Sh." Anton made a show of making sure the door was closed. “This room is soundproof. They can’t hear us.”

A look of understanding passed over Nabokov’s face. “You’re working with them.”

“Not exactly.” Anton faced him. “I saw an opportunity with Artemiy. I infiltrated the royals without direct orders. But it seems my compatriots had the same ideas as me.” He raised his eyebrows. “So. Tell me how they contacted you.”

“We met at a pub on the main street,” Vladimir began. “He looked Ravkan, and he was muttering about how insufferable the Grisha were, putting a curfew on the town and dragging peasants to their ‘hospitals’.”

“Wasn’t there plague in Yeletov?” Anton asked.

Vladimir scoffed. “It was part of their scheme. My family has never trusted the Grisha. The King thought giving my father Udova would appease him and keep him from contesting his _union_. They spread plague on purpose with their bloodletters.”

“You’re saying they used Heartrenders to artificially infect people with the Queen’s Pox?”

“Yes.” Vladimir tried to cross his arms, but had to make due with putting his hands together. “The Fjerdan got us together, the other men in the pub and us. We started meeting there every week. He would bring us weapons—grenades, revolvers, Fjerdan-made, all of it...and he taught us how to kill Grisha.”

“This Healer was the first?”

“But not the last,” Vladimir said. “The Lieutenant, Lera Kirdan, is next. She’s probably already dead.”

She was. Anton said nothing. “But I think they’re planning something bigger,” Vladimir continued. “Koychev—that was the name of the Fjerdan—he implied that there was another group like ours here in the capital. They were going to do something big. Something drastic.”

“They’re going to assassinate the royals,” Anton guessed.

“I assume so,” Vladimir said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Koychev never specified.”

“How do I get in touch with Koychev?” Anton asked. Vladimir rattled off an address. Anton smiled. “Thank you, Vladimirovich. We’ll be in touch.”

 

“Unbelievable,” Nikolai said. “That really worked?”

“Artemiy have heard all of it,” Anton said.

“The _Okhrana_ seized entire crates of Fjerdan weaponry from the address Nabokov gave Anton, Father,” Artemiy reported. The bags under his eyes were the only indication that he’d been out all night, raiding the pub and the house in Yeletov Nabokov had told them about. “There was no one home when we got in, but we arrested two men nearby with Fjerdan weapons like the ones in the crates.”

“Thank you both,” Nikolai said. “This appears easier to remedy than we thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aleks rlly out here giving artemiy relationship advice like he ever had a functional relationship in his life


	13. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter, it has some pretty graphic gore in it.

#  **X: NINA**

It was the first warm day of spring when they ruled to hang Vladimir Nabokov.

It hung over the court like a deadly cloud of smoke. The  _ grevskiy  _ dragged Nabokov to the foot of the King’s dias. He’d been allowed to shower and change into a different pair of clothes than the ones he’d bled in, but he still looked terrible. The left side of his face was a misshapen, purple-ish blob, his left eyebrow split by a just scabbed-over slice. But he glared coldly at Artemiy, who stood in full parade wear behind Nikolai’s throne, with his good eye, and despite Artemiy’s stony expression Nina could sense his unease.

“Nabokov Vladimir Vladimirovich,” the  _ grevskiy  _ guard announced. “Prisoner of the Crown.”

Nikolai gave Nabokov a once-over. “Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov,” he spoke. “With my powers as Sovereign of the Ravkan Empire, for one count of High Treason, one count of Petty Treason, three counts of Assault of a Military Officer, I sentence you to death by hanging.”

He didn’t beg like Nina had expected him to. He bowed his head. “You are the law, Witch King.”

Nikolai hummed. “You’re right. I am.”

 

A black-cloud storm drifted towards Os Alta as the Triumvirate and Nina strode down the stairs towards the Little Palace. It was as they passed the main gates that Nina noted something  _ bizarre. _

“Your Majesty,” she said, addressing Zoya. “Are my eyes failing me, or is that Kaz Brekker threatening the gate guards?”

It was. Kaz was speaking furiously, waving his cane about to accentuate his words. A similarly clad man with cool, dark skin leaned against Brekker’s trademark black automobile.  _ Jesper. _

“Saints above,” Zoya said, surprised in a resigned sort of way, and called out to the guards, “Let him pass!”

They met Kaz as the gates opened. His hair had grown out of its typical cut, and the permanent bags under his eyes seemed darker than usual. The smell of strong coffee and saltwater came off him, the smell of the Kerch. “Your Radiant Majesty,” he greeted Zoya, bowing with a flourish. “I need to speak to the King as soon as humanly possible.” 

The gates clanged shut. Kaz and Jesper exchanged a salute. Nina watched the car disappear over the hill. “Nina!” Zoya and Kaz were halfway across the yard. “Come.”

Nina and Genya gazed at each other for a brief moment. There was a knowing look in Genya’s eyes that made Nina’s stomach turn.

 

Zoya led them straight to Nikolai’s office, where he greeted them already on his feet. “Sturmhond.” Kaz grasped Nikolai’s forearm firmly. “There are Fjerdans here to kill you.”

Nikolai blinked. “Thanks.”

Kaz tapped the tip of his cane against the rug. “I was almost killed on my way up here,” he continued. “They know I know. They were trying to stop me from getting this information to you.”

“You escaped unharmed?” Nikolai asked.

“Of course I did,” Kaz said, waving him off. “My car is bombproof.”

“They tried to blow you up?” Nina exclaimed, flabbergasted.

“Can you hear, Zenik?”

“I’ll rip your good leg off,” Nina started, but Zoya stopped her.

“Do you have proof?” Zoya asked instead, studying him intently. Kaz produced a twine-tied stack of letters from his jacket.

“We intercepted these en route from the Fjerdan embassy in Ketterdam to the Ice Dogs.”

“Fjerdan gang in Ketterdam,” Nina supplied as Zoya furrowed her brow. Kaz handed them over and Nina took a moment to skim them. “These are about assassination, alright,” she announced, having found the word no less than six times in one letter. “Why to the Ice Dogs?”

“We followed a ship hijacked by the Ice Dogs to Os Kervo,” Kaz said matter-of-factly. “Inej is tailing them in the lower city. They must be the assassins.”

“Nabokov said there were already assassins in the city,” Nikolai said to Zoya.

“Reinforcements,” Zoya inferred. “They must’ve gotten wind that Nabokov had been captured and changed plans.”

“Does it really take that many assassins to kill us?”

Zoya gave a small, self-satisfied smile. “I’m glad the Fjerdans have learned I’m not so easy to kill.”

“Don’t be,” Kaz said. “It’s going to take you years to get all these hitmen out.”

“You underestimate Ravka’s abilities,” Nikolai warned.

Kaz raised his eyebrows. “On the contrary, I think you are severely underestimating the Ice Dogs.”

Zoya cracked her knuckles, seeming restless. “We have to go, Nikolai.”

“Yes, go hang Nabokov in the city square armed with the knowledge that the city is full of assassins.” Kaz pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not afraid of assassins,” Zoya snapped. She straightened, fixing her  _ kefta _ , and swept out of the room before Kaz could respond. 

Kaz sighed and turned to Nikolai. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going.”

Nikolai reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small spectacles case, tucking it away in the pocket of his greatcoat. “I cannot afford to be afraid in my own capital, Kaz,” he said softly, without looking up. “Worse men have tried to kill me and failed.”

 

“Are you sure this looks alright?” Artemiy fretted, turning around in front of his mirror. Nina sighed heavily and stopped him with her hands on his shoulders.

“You look  _ fine _ ,” she insisted. David’s best Materialki had made Artemiy an outfit fit for a prince: a fitted military-style coat in Summoner blue, white cuffs and collar and beautiful gold embroidery that covered most of his chest. It had one other, secret feature: an inner lining of Materialki corecloth, capable of protecting the prince from the worst of an attempted shot. He’d had his hair braided with blue ribbons and hid his hands inside a pair of white satin gloves. With the trademark Lantsov smoulder, he was every bit the diamond of Ravka.

Artemiy sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Okay.” He paused, looking at her from the reflection in the mirror. “...I talked to Kaz.”

“I know,” Nina said heavily. “But there’s nothing we can do. They’ll not be convinced.”

“Can we protect them?”

“I will not let them die,” Nina promised.

Artemiy scowled. “Death is not the worst outcome.”

 

* * *

 

##  ANTON

The  _ grevskiy _ made the decision use the armored carriages in place of the cars.

There was a darkness set over the Palace as Anton made his way down the stairs of the main entrance and reached Artemiy, who absently pulled him close. “You two will be in the back car,” Kirill was saying. He was dressed in almost-clunky grey military wear, the body armor evident under his army-issued frock coat. He’d be walking alongside the caravan instead of riding inside, along with Nina, and Nikolai’s personal entourage, the Shu twins Tamar and Tolya. They watched him warily as Artemiy led him to their carriage. The horses sniffed unhappily, shaking their pelts. It must have been the anxiety of the driver traveling down the reins.

“If something goes wrong,” Artemiy said, “your first priority are my parents. Do you understand that?”

“You are so pessimistic,” Anton said, though worry made him cold, too. “They’re in an armored car.”

Artemiy said nothing. They climbed inside, and Artemiy pressed against him, a hand on Anton’s thigh. Anton looked up at his handsome face, leaning his head on Artemiy’s shoulder.  _ Whatever happens today,  _ he thought,  _ the whole world is going to change. _ The Ravkans knew already that the world was on the brink of upheaval; that’s why they were all so paranoid. But they also knew any sign of weakness would cause the same amount of chaos. Why would Zoya and Nikolai, the Terror of Fjerda and the King of Scars, fear something like assassins? Hadn’t they survived worse?

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Artemiy said suddenly.

Anton blinked. “What?”

“You were thinking out loud.” Artemiy looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were burning blue.

The door opened before Anton could respond. Kaz Brekker stuck his head in. “I’m riding along,” he said non-negotiably, climbing in.

“...That’s fine,” Artemiy said hesitantly. Anton went to pull away, but Kaz waved him off.

“Please. I’m not so conservative,” he dismissed. “I can handle two men in love.”

Artemiy pulled Anton closer. “Well then,” Kaz continued. “Let’s go meet our deaths, shall we?” He tapped on the wall of the carriage, and with a jolt, they started towards the square.

 

They were to hang Nabokov in the city square. The gallows were already set up when Artemiy and Anton stepped out of the car. Barriers had been erected to keep the assembled people, of which there were thousands, from getting too close to the royals. Artemiy joined his parents while Anton helped Kaz out of the carriage. “If something happens,” Kaz said to him, without moving his mouth, “your sole priority is Artemiy. Do you understand me, Helvar?”

“Yes, sir,” Anton said.

Kaz’s lips twitched, almost as if he were about to smile. “It’s Kaz.”

Anton looked over the courtyard. Zoya, Nikolai, and Artemiy had made their way to their platform, where they’d be standing during the execution. A microphone was set up at the front for Nikolai to give his speech. Squinting he recognized Jes, Kaz’s deputy, standing with Nina and Kirill at the foot of the platform, apparently armed to the teeth. A pair of executioners in blood red walked the cuffed Nabokov, a sack over his head, onto the gallows. Artemiy beckoned him forward, and he jogged over obediently, climbing onto the platform. “Look official,” Artemiy advised. “Father is about to start speaking.”

Right on cue, Nikolai raised his arm, and the crowd silenced. He took a breath and began. “My loving people,” he said, “there are traitors among us. Traitors who wish to see our beloved Ravka come under control of our greatest enemies, who as we speak amass troops on our northern border.” He pointed at Nabokov, standing unsteadily upon the gallows. Anton watched the crowd ripple as they turned to where he’d pointed. “This noble, a boy of my own kin, has forsaken his country and family for the Fjerdan scourge which has placed hatred in his heart, hatred for his fellow Ravkans.” Nikolai nodded to the executioners, one of whom held Nabokov in place while the other pulled off the sack and put his head through the noose. “For this treason, he, as an enemy of Ravka, must die.” He turned back to the crowd, who watched him silently, entranced. “Fjerda has tried again and again to turn our country to their darkness. I will not stand aside any longer. I have a message for the king of Fjerda.”

The floor of the gallows gave way with a rumble. The sound of Nabokov’s neck snapping echoed through the empty plaza. “King Rudolf: for violating our territory, aiding terrorists, attempting to assassinate our allies, and kidnapping and torturing our crown prince on  _ our _ land, my only option is to declare war on you. Pray you survive our wrath.”

A roar went up from the crowd. The chant eventually reached Anton’s ears as he jumped off the platform to help Artemiy down the stairs. “ _ Privetstvuyte korolya!” _ _ All hail the king.  _

He passed by Kaz and Jes, locked in furious conversation. “But Inej said—”

“That doesn’t matter, Jesper!” Kaz snapped. “It’s not safe. If there’s one, there are twenty.”

“We’ll cause a panic if we divert the cars!”

“We’ll be responsible for the death of the planet’s richest monarch if we don’t!”

Artemiy cleared his throat loudly. “Our carriages are bulletproof, Mr. Brekker.”

“Not enough,” Kaz said, running his hand through his hair. “The horses.”

“The sooner we get on the road to the Upper City, the less time alleged assassins have time to set up,” Jesper pointed out. “Let’s just  _ go,  _ Kaz.”

Kaz pinched the bridge of his nose. For a moment he looked immeasurably weary. “Fine,” he rescinded. “Anton, Artemiy, in the car.”

“That’s Your Highness to you!” Artemiy started, but Anton shoved him inside before he could continue. For a moment all he could hear was Artemiy’s furious muttering and his own heartbeat, which pounded in his ears like he’d just run across the city. The door opened and Kaz climbed in with a heavy, anxious sigh. His pale skin had lost what little color it had left. It made his eyes look almost like the color of blood. He banged twice on the window between him and the driver, and they started moving with a jolt. He pulled the curtains and put his head in his hands, sitting as far from them as he possibly could.

 

Ten agonizingly long, uneventful minutes passed. Anton had grown used to the bounce of the carriage. He played absently with Artemiy’s fingers, running his thumb over the thread-thin scars on his hands, the ones he’d put there. “The two of you worry too much,” Artemiy said amusedly. “We should be crossing into the Upper City any minute now—”

A deep, dull  _ boom  _ sounded. The carriage stopped. Artemiy clapped his hands over his mouth. Kaz’s head snapped up so fast Anton heard the soft crack of his neck. Anton felt terribly cold. “Don’t get out,” Kaz ordered immediately. “Artemiy, don’t you dare.”

Artemiy muffled a whimper of terror with his hands. Anton wrapped his arms around him. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “The cars are bombproof, remember?”

Someone banged on the door. “Anton!” Nina’s voice was tight. “We need an extra pair of hands.”

He turned back to Kaz, who gave him a small nod. “I’ll be back,” Anton said to Artemiy.

“No—” Anton opened the door and slipped out.

The first thing that hit him was the burning smell of gunpowder. Anton coughed in surprise. The front of Nina’s  _ kefta  _ had been scorched, but she herself seemed unharmed. Anton stepped away and got a better look at what had happened.

The bomb had struck Genya and David’s carriage, killing their horses and sending the carriage toppling onto its side. He spotted Jesper in the throng of white-coated  _ grevskiy  _ trying to stand the car back up. Kirill was pinned against the door of the King’s Carriage, apparently in the midst of yelling at the royals through the window. “Your Majesty, with all the respect I can afford you at this exact moment, I absolutely cannot allow you to exit your carriage!” Kirill said through gritted teeth, obviously struggling against the combined strength of both Zoya and Nikolai. Anton and Nina sped over just as Kirill lost balance and was knocked on his back. The door flew open and Zoya leapt down, narrowly avoiding stepping on Kirill’s face. 

A shout went up as the  _ grevskiy  _ managed to get the overturned carriage open. “We need an ambulance!” one of the officers yelled, as they pulled a limp bundle of red from the side. Zoya looked like she was going to faint. Anton’s stomach did flips.  _ Genya.  _

“Your Majesty, no!” Anton’s head snapped to Nina as she reached for Zoya, who had started towards the carriage. He turned back towards the crowd as he heard a shrill scream. A dark projectile maybe the size of his head flew towards him. “Anton!”

Kirill tackled him onto the ground. There must have been a bomb, but it was so loud that Anton’s ears couldn’t process it. His head rang. He’d skinned his cheek on the cobble when Kirill had pushed him onto the floor. As the ringing in his ears faded he heard Kirill breathing heavily. “We’re alive,” he whispered, as if he didn’t believe it. “Anton.”

“Let me up,” Anton grunted, and Kirill rolled off. He knelt on the ground as Anton stood, a hand on the back of his head. Anton leaned over him and saw why. The entire back of his head and neck, everything not covered by his kefta or his arms, had been scorched, the skin cracked and the color of burnt logs. 

“Stand up carefully,” Anton said, gently helping him stand. He struggled to look around; they were surrounded by grey, foul-smelling smoke. For a terrifying moment he saw a white shape move in the smoke and thought it some sort of apparition. Then the  _ grevskiy  _ soldier stepped closer, taking Kirill from him. 

He went to follow them, but a strange log on the ground stopped him. Except it wasn’t a log. It was a disembodied leg, burned almost beyond recognition. A bloody trail led from the leg to its owner, who had dragged himself away from the carnage. Nikolai leaned against the overturned carriage, gripping the stump where his right leg had once been. His eyes were faded and unfocused, turned from their usual hazel to a sickly green. “Zoya,” he rasped, looking at him with the bleary attention of someone half-dead. “Where is she?”

Anton’s tongue felt like felt. He stared at Nikolai blankly, and dragged his eyes away. “I’ll find her,” he murmured. He doubted Nikolai heard him.

He found her two steps into the nauseating smoke, which reeked of burning flesh. He knelt at her side, his boot half in the puddle of blood that was forming around her. The mine had ripped her open navel to belly button, shredding through her  _ kefta  _ like it was paper. As it was designed to do. Her hands twitched like she was trying to force herself to move. He must have made some sort of noise, because her eyes opened and she gazed at him for a paralyzing moment before her eyes rolled back into her head. She didn’t move again after that.

Two medics passed him and carried Nikolai away as he howled in pain. “Let’s go, lad,” said Kaz into his ear, pulling him up. He put an arm around Anton and started leading him away. “It’s alright,” Kaz told him. “We’re taking you home. It’s alright.” Nina was there to help him into Kaz’s car. There was a far-off expression on her face, and bloodstains on her  _ kefta _ .

He finally found his voice. “Zoya’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REGRET NOTHING!!!!  
> just for the record: this will be rewritten in its entirety once I read King of Scars, but the main plot probably won't change that much, if at all. don't forget to comment how much you hate me for killing off all these characters ^v^


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